Recompense
by rotarydialphone
Summary: A mute Sangheili known as Daniel rallies with a band of humans and Covenant survivors in the wake of the Great Schism when all are left stranded. While dealing with his hot tempered friend who has a volatile relationship with a sassy UNSC soldier, Daniel comes to terms with his new reality and his feelings for the human girl who has shown him mercy. OCs. Gore/language/adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This is just a little something to flesh out things mentioned in my other story Double Helix. There are no serious spoilers for that though it does go into more detail about the happenings on Ambrosia II pre-arrival of Zeta and 'Loram (i.e. none of those characters in this story) and can be considered a spolier in some regards. This is just for the fun of it and will probably not enjoy frequent updates...but, then again who knows? As the summary suggests, it will likely be sappy and feelingsy though I will try to keep it within canon (as much as this type of thing can be).

A special thanks to KATT9033 for the continued interest.

I will warn of lemons (none in this chapter).

This story will contain male Sangheili/female human relationships so if that grosses you out don't read it...it is rated M for a reason. Also, this is intentionally being written as a romance though as before there will be some rough descriptions of a war-type nature.

**Notice: **I do not own Halo, this is just me writing again in its universe.

* * *

Prolog

**Projected Slipstream Space; Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Torsch 'Koridee stood in the middle of the wide hall looking at a closed door. The surface was burnished purple, almost black with an intricate design spanning the polished exterior. His eyes wandered the pattern, dallying as he tried to collect together what was in his mind to say. The words tread dangerously close to blasphemy, however, it was not the immediate hearer he feared, but those who may have been listening of which he was unaware. The Prophets had their ways of learning of mutterings and with one even now on the bridge of the ship the Stealth Major felt wise in keeping his concerns close.

As he lifted his foot and shifted to wager a step to call attention to his presence the casing lighted in a mute shade and hummed a soft melody, the door rolling effortlessly away. The Legion Master's slave froze mid-gate, his bruised and damaged face lighting with fear at the other man before scurrying back. As Torsch strolled forward the slave hid round the frame just inside the room.

_Sad, pitiful creature._

Only the highest ranking Sangheili of the Covenant military were allowed to have slaves of their own kind accompany them and Legion Master 'Berovai made it a point to exercise this privilege. The boy was probably the same age as Torsch's eldest son, though the slave was no longer altogether male.

Emasculated in his youth, the boy stood at the height less than that of an adult female and never developed a sturdy frame or filled out in bulk. Though he was likely well into his third decade, he would forever be just a boy. Small, he was scarred with hashed lines from his manacled wrists to his elbows with the Mark of Disobedience and was always about with his face to the floor. He was docile and frightened; with good reason. Though no one else on the ship would be fool enough to touch him, slaves were frequently mistreated and Torsch knew 'Berovai to beat his chattel senseless. They were the lowest of social castes in Sangheili society. Nameless, clanless property regarded as void of personhood. Their blood was often spilled freely for they had no honor to lose. A child of the House of Berov, the Legion Master's slave was a constant reminder of what the man was truly capable of.

As Torsch stepped clear of the threshold the boy curled around to dash down the hall, the door winking before sealing itself back in place. Legion Master Sicera 'Berovai stood in his office and personal quarters just beyond his desk; his back turned on the room, gazing out the great window at the pitch of the slipstream. From his broad shoulders spilled the emerald fur of a Legion Master's cloak, adding to his already imposing size. Had the Prophet not insisted on making the journey with them, Sicera would have been the highest authority in the legion, as was his place. Comprised of three hundred ships of varying size, the _Legion of Recompense_ was the largest Special Operations force in the Covenant Army. Roughly five hundred thousand Spec Ops Sangheili and their various counterparts and subordinate species made the legion their home. Self-sustaining, the legion could operate without having to return to High Charity or the homeworld and had done so for five years. But, that was before Thel 'Vadamee lost the Holy Ring and the legion had been recalled.

Casting aside the unpleasant thought of the former naval Supreme Commander's recent sentencing, the Stealth Major walked the length of the room without fear and stood at his lord's side. The men looked out upon the gently rippling darkness of the rift in silence.

Sicera's pale yellow eyes were mirrored in the window's surface and shifted to look upon Torsch's reflection. The stillness of unspoken but mutual understanding played in the long moment of quiet. Finally, 'Berovai turned and took the few steps to his chair while Torsch remained and watched him from the window.

"I like it no more than you, old friend," the Legion Master rumbled, turning and shifting so that he might catch his companion's reaction.

'Koridee grunted, folding his arms in a comfortable gesture of insolence before turning to face his superior. The men were the same age, though situated very differently in civilian and military life. Torsch was a capable soldier; enough to get him into Special Operations. He was vicious and ruthless; so much so he had been sent to the _Legion of Recompense_ and led a file of his own Stealth Sangheili. But, without his service to the Covenant 'Koridee was little if anything. Not completely unattractive, he was short though broad, and was well aware the distinction of his military service was the _only_ thing which brought females to pay him a second glance despite his cordial nature to the fairer sex. Sicera, on the other hand, was the type statues would have been carved to commemorate. Even without his civilian standing he would not have wanted for mates. 'Berovai was tall and dark and had the same absolute hatred for females as most of his kindred. They were useful tools not to be considered for purposes other than his pleasure and breeding.

Sicera had been confirmed kaidon at the age of forty and proven himself worthy time and again for well over thirty years since. He ruled his House in a manner no less cruel than he treated his women and commanded his legion; demanding the same level of obedience and order from civilians as he did his warriors. He was cold and merciless; nothing if not adherent to the letter of law; known to kill and maim his own if they should disappoint in the slightest. The fame of the legion existed because of him, because of the absolute pitiless disregard for all but authority he instilled in those under his command. He had risen through the ranks quickly and stood to be the army's next Imperial General when need arose.

Torsch was one of the few who knew him as more than a heartless monstrosity, though…there was little more to Sicera than that.

The men had grown up together, raised in the same communal setting by old Uncles of Berov and the territories which bound themselves as clients. Their friendship was one born of time and war. Torsch could say whatever he wished to his commanding officer in private without concern for rank and status. Sicera was hard, but he was not completely unreasonable.

"I believe," 'Koridee said, pausing to draw a measured breath, "it is for more than is claimed."

One side of Sicera's mouth lifted in a tiny smile, "Careful," he admonished with good nature.

Torsch snorted, "That they would insist those foul smelling _beasts _be part of this legion it is…" he stopped short of calling it and the other man chuckled mirthfully.

"We bide this for a time," he said with a graceful, dismissive wave of his hand, "in a few days 'Vadamee will be stripped of his name and executed and the Prophets will tire of their spectacle: they will tire of the Jiralhanae," he nodded his head thoughtfully to one side, "For now they will be placed at the head of the file," he leered, polished white fangs catching the light, "Let those mammals die first so as few of them return as possible."

Torsh's eyes widened, '_at the head of the file'_, he gritted his teeth at the idea of Sangheili _following _those incompetent brutes into battle. But, Sicera made a fine point, which only added to Koridee's ire, "And what of this mission?" he gestured to the window, "When the remainder of the Holy Rings are in jeopardy and the Parasite threatens escape, they send us to a human inhabited planet instead of where we _rightfully belong_?"

It was 'Berovai's turn to fold his arms as his brow ridges lowered and the set of his face took a deadly expression, "What you suggest is very close to _heresy_," he hissed, his tone warning his friend just how close he was coming to insubordinate ramblings.

"What I suggest is the _truth_," Torsch spat, "That the most ardent legion is sent _away_ it is," he clenched his mandibles, "it is all _wrong_, Sicera."

The Legion Master held his glare for a few moments then his face fell and he sighed, turning in his chair to his desk. Though the thoughts were dangerous to speak, the Stealth Major was voicing nothing which had not already played over in the other's mind. There had been no indication the planet the higher Prophets had sent them after held a thing more than a collection of pitiful humans. The scourge needed to be wiped out, but that was not a matter for a Special Operations Legion. Yet again, the Prophets seemed so sure and the idea of humans keeping relics carefully concealed was abhorrent.

"Still," 'Berovai whispered, giving his friend a pointed look, "we have our instructions. _Make the most of them_, Stealth Major."

Torsch dropped his arms to his sides and in an expression of deference dipped his face to the floor. He accepted the veiled order to kill the unwelcome additions and knew when he had tested his lord's patience enough.

* * *

Chapter One

**Beta Centauri System, Ambrosia II; New Saint Etienne Reservoir**

It was supposedly 2100 hours, give or take a few hours, and the day had gone to hell on a sled from the start. Sergeant First Class Amy Starr stood just at the edge of the city on the junction bridge that decorated the mouth of the primary reservoir. Cutting the River Alsace well short of the basin which would dump it into the ocean, the dam site held back some three trillion gallons of fresh water. Known as Lake Bordereaux, the spectacle stretched before her and was set ablaze by the light of the setting suns. Amy folded her arms across the top of the rock railing that lined the old bridge which crossed from New Sainte Entinne to North Entinne and leaned out to look down at the cause of all her recent frustrations. The gentle arcs of tunnels which led to the principle subduction juncture for the capital city, surrounding townships, the Colonial Authority, and Army installation were barely visible above the waterline several hundred feet below. These channels webbed beneath the jurisdiction to purification plants, hydroelectric grids, and were split off in a maze of aqueducts that supplied fresh water and routed waste water to and from collection points all over the immediate area.

Ambrosia II had been terraformed in 2320 and first colonized by farmers. Most of them had been French speaking vineyard keepers wishing to take advantage of the planets rich soil and year round temperate climate. It was during early construction that the Alsace Dam and the greater aqueduct system were first constructed. For over two hundred years it had been sufficient. Fast-forward and the increased social growth owed to a booming trade economy in goods famed throughout the galactic colonies, and the system was antiquated at best and unable to adequately sustain needs at worst. That equated to a whole lot of engineer-talk adding up to a desperate need to update and expand the entire system. No small feat it its own right, but one confounded by local farmers who were raising a significant stink about how disruption would affect their yield and harm their bottom line. Not to mention open theories about the UNSC using the renovation to expand the colonial AI's ability to eavesdrop and spy.

It had all turned into a political nightmare. The UEG and the colony were bickering over the details, each grasping at proverbial straws and calling in favors in order to force the hands of the other. Plop one Sergeant First Class into the fray and call her a liaison; tack on six months of negotiations to reach a timeline suitable for all; throw in three contract agencies who won bids for some three-thousand civilian contractors; and throw it against the wall and say fuck it.

That was how Amy felt, _just fuck it_.

With a project start date and details somehow leaked to the public, the news report which had been broadcast that morning almost caused a full scale riot. It honestly looked as if there were now _three _insurgent factions stirring discontent and now it seemed like the whole civilian populous was threatening action to halt progress. Even though everyone doubted rebel claims of numbers with the colonists on their side there wasn't a UNSC member one who went anywhere, on post or off, in uniform or not, who did so unarmed. Thankfully, violence had been avoided and the civilians had been placated with the promise of an earnest negotiation and genuine transparency.

Amy was a Technical Engineer for shit's sake, not a damn public relations expert. She just wanted to do her job. Supposedly, all of her training went flying out the window because chain of command learned she could string an intelligent sentence together; though she was fairly sure looks had something to do with it. It turned out hostilities were not quelled just because there was a pretty blonde at the table. Amy had been pulled from the field and stuck in the middle and found herself the go-between for civilian and Corps of Engineers specialists, command, and a colony full of pissed off people taking cues from loud-mouthed agitators. It gave her a headache.

Amy looked up and let her gaze lead her around. Resting her back against the stone wall she could just see the glint of stars emerging in the growing darkness as the suns sank lower on the opposite horizon. Some days it was hard to remember that there was a war going on out there. A greater war. The UNSC was fighting a battle on two fronts while still attempting to maintain livable colonial societies. With all of the death and destruction and the ever present concern over being found so far into the outer colonized region, it was difficult to accept that her place was effectively to be middleman in a squabble over updating plumbing.

* * *

**UNSCA Fort Champlain**

Checking her watch for the hundredth time, Lucinda Deléon made her way along the parameter fence. She was making good time. It was just after one in the morning and the moons provided decent lighting for her path. Branches smacked at her and thorned vines tugging at her clothing, a few catching bare skin as she ran as fast as she could. The fifteen year-old picked her way along in the shadows. Every step was one more away from set charges and one closer to the designated rally point for her group. She skittered across a wide dirt trail and hopped into a ditch, checkimg her watch again. Lucinda had done her part, just like hundreds of others going about their orders to help bring the UEG's control on the planet to an end, to cripple the UNSC Army unit stationed there by application of force.

Though she didn't understand much of the finer points of what was going on, she knew when the charges went off she had better be at the rally point to take up a gun and ready to kill any and everything in uniform that came her way. Some of the adults had referred to this as their great stand, the stand the rebel remnant and sympathetic citizens of Ambrosia II took to make their voices heard. The Caddo Rebel Fighters, to which Lucinda belonged by way of her family's allegiance, were fewest in number and had been sent deepest into the installation to set snares and draw the enemy out. The UNSC was spread thin, and scraping for able bodies had left them in the open. Dissenters within their own ranks had equipped those who would breach Fort Champlain to avoid detection by the Colonial AI and given up sensitive locations open to attack.

Members of the Outer Insurgent Movement were poised somewhere in the night ready to stand with the people of Caddo while the men and women of Ashmund's Freedom Front were most armed and stood to take the city proper. Azrael Ashmund had long acquired resources, numbers, and wealth before seeking the solitude of the small outer colonial planet to spring his coup. He brought the existing factions together and all Lucinda knew was that the cause grew strong under his leadership. For once the insurgents had a real chance; and that chance was now.

Dressed in layers of rags and filthy by design, Lucinda crawled through brush and under a length of parameter fence which wound around the military complex. She had just risen to her feet on the opposite side and made to check her watch again when a bright rip of light captured her gaze. It was like a bolt of lightning which never touched the ground, suspended in air and remaining instead of flashing away. The spectacle drew her to a stop. Craning her neck, the girl blinked as the tear drew into an elliptical corona flagged with ripples across the sky overhead. The air around her buzzed and she felt the soft electric tug as the tiny hairs on her arms stood on end. Hundreds more sizzling blue ruptures began slicing through the night. A deafening _boom _cracked the stillness and the ground shook, throwing her from her feet. The earth continued to tremble beneath her in an irregular rhythm which shook her to the core as sounds like deafening thunder clapped in nauseating succession. Lucinda clamped her hands over hear ringing ears and hunkered against the fence looking up to see the smooth shape of Covenant ships winking into the sky as their widening ruptures lit the surface as bright as day.

Gasping for breath, Lucinda struggled to her feet, using chain link to pull herself up as white hot energy signatures collected along the bottom and sides of some of the crafts and bluish streaks of plasma began raining toward the surface. As she stood frozen in horror and disbelief, the bottoms of larger ships began opening up and smaller vessels poured out like a plague. It was unlike anything she had ever envisioned. There were older people in the faction who claimed to have survived evacuation in the wake of Covenant attacks. Their stories had become lynchpins to the narrative of the groups operating on her home planet. The UNSC's inability, or unwillingness, to protect its own had been a catalyst for continued rebel uprisings in the outer colonies despite a supposed war for the survival of the species raging all around.

Lines of explosives began detonating from well inside the military instillation. Screams began pealing through the night, the raid sirens sparked to life only to die suddenly as the planet winked into an eerie darkness broken only by the ghostly purple of Covenant ships and fires that licked up at the sky in the distance all around. Lucinda found her legs and ran.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**New Saint Etienne  
**

It had been quiet for hours; Lucinda didn't trust it. She hunkered down beneath a rancid blanket of garbage peering from a crack that had rusted through a corner of the dumpster. By her rough calculation, it had been her hiding place for almost two days. She couldn't really be sure, her watch wasn't working and all she had to go on was the rise and fall of the suns; but she wasn't sure if she could trust even that because at some point she had fallen asleep. She had also wet herself at one point, unable to hold it any longer and too scared to leave the relative safety of the big trash can. Urine had left her skin raw but she was too tired and afraid to feel humiliated. Lucinda closed her eyes against a swell of sadness and despair and a feeling of being helplessly small and alone.

She had tried to return to the rally point early the morning before; but having made it with the advancing sounds of war closing in she had rounded the familiar street corner to find the line of buildings no longer existed. A smoldering crater had stood in its place, glassed edges pushing against asphalt, tumbles of bricks and melted cars littering the roadway. A body lay prone in the street unmoving and half crusted in black char.

Panic had risen like a suffocating gloom. She had nowhere else to go and was armed only with her father's antique pistol. Sinking back into the shadows, Lucinda had tried to keep calm.

It didn't seem real.

A hand had clasped her shoulder and Lucinda nearly screamed as she wheeled to see the bent form of Monsignor Jim and his granddaughter Della Belafonte hiding in the shadows beside her, "The Covenant done show up," Jim had whispered in his brogue, pinching up his wrinkled face, "This change _everything_."

Della was pale, her short blonde curls like a wild mane sprouting from her head. Her eyes were wide and glassy and she looked as if she were ready to pass out from fear.

"We go now from here," Jim guffed.

Lucinda nodded, a lump of tears knotted painfully in her throat, "What about the others?" she croaked, thinking of her mother and father, the rest of her family and her friends, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder as Jim led the girls down an ally.

"_Tu es con," _he said like an oath, "They all dead, love," he answered without emotion.

Before she could find words to protest, frustration and anger rising up at his cavalier proclamation, two Grunts had waddled around a corner. The lights from their pistols washed over Monsignor Jim in the second before they opened fire.

Jim's withered old body locked up and he screamed as his flesh was seared by green bolts of plasma. The smaller aliens hooted to their unseen companions, "Over here!"

Della turned and she and Lucinda careened into each other in the panic to run. Heated green gasses streaked past them in blobs that lighted the walls and danced in hot succession at their feet. At some point, Della's scream had pierced through the fog of pure terror pushing Lucinda forward and she ducked down a side ally, running until she collapsed, running until she couldn't hear anything and could barely see straight, running until she was completely alone.

The Covenant was _everywhere_ and as she had slunk along the façade of an old apartment building she heard the high-pitched garble of Grunts followed by an Elite's bark. She hid behind the dumpster and waited for the aliens to amble away. As she sat there plastered against the reeking garbage receptacle she had seen the green and purple glow of Covenant weapons from a nearby side street and climbed into the can to hide.

Snuggled beneath the layers of filth, daring at times not even to breathe, night had passed into day and back again. Lucinda had heard many patrols come around, and sometimes caught a glimpse of the aliens through the rusty hole in her hiding place. The last had come by what felt like hours before. Still, she could hear war raging in the distance from all around and every now and then a Covenant vehicle could be heard swooshing through the air nearby.

Though fear clutched at her gut with icy tendrils at the thought, she had to get out of there. She couldn't hide in the trash forever and a good time to try to escape and find some who might have weapons or know what to do was looking as open as ever. Crawling as quietly as she could, Lucinda made her way to the flap of the dumpster and held her breath as she raised up to peer out.

Nothing.

She crawled quickly but quietly from the bin, hooking her small feet on the outer rails the trash trucks used to lift the unwieldy receptacle and landing on the litter covered ally floor as delicately as she could. She backed to the cool brick façade of the building to steel herself against trembling limbs and failing resolve.

She made it all the way up another block before hearing the chatter of Jackals and hiding beneath a pile of black trash bags and street garbage. The creatures' noise faded away but she kept her face turned to the ground and eyes clamped shut, willing herself to remain hidden. Even with her father's pistol biting into her hip from the waist of her pants Lucinda couldn't bring herself to take hold of the weapon. There would be no rising to the occasion…she was a kid, just wanting to hide until it was over.

Her whole life she had been prepared to fight the UNSC and attain freedom from the UEG and their distant rule; but she had never exchanged bullets with the enemy, never had to kill someone, and suddenly the risk of being seen by an overwhelming enemy seemed far greater than the reward of killing a few of them. She hated herself for feeling like a lost child, but that was exactly what she was.

A nearby rustle made her chest tighten as fear seized her tightly, "_Psst_," she heard the sound and opened her eyes, _"Mademoiselle, ici vers le bas." _

She knew some French out of necessity and followed the directions, and the sound of a male voice, to see a small basement window jiggle and swing inward with a faint squeak. A hand hurriedly waved through the opening for her to come closer. Relieved, she abandoned her hiding place and crawled on hands and knees, sitting on the ground and dangling her legs through the window. Several sets of hands grabbed at her and pulled her down into the darkness beyond.

* * *

**Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

The prophet spoke at eloquent length about the blessed duty to destroy the humans and reclaim the Holy Relics. His melodious voice carried all throughout the legion to the crews which remained shipboard; those preparing to embark in the second wave; and those already victorious in the lengthy struggle to take and hold the primary city by force. His tone never wavered. Sitting atop his gravity throne on the bridge of the flagship, his words were to be an encouragement to the weary, a balm to the wounded, and a prattling annoyance to all.

Yipip slowly shifted from one stumpy leg to the other, his long Deacon's tunic swaying gently like the faithful caught up in the rapture of the Prophet's words. In truth, he could have recited the incantation himself and found it rather boring. Mostly, he had somewhere else he wanted to be and he was already running late. He was tired and his friend was waiting. But, the faithful were patient in the presence of their Prophet, or at least they pretended to be, and the Unggoy did his best to appear penitent and sincere as Humility offered up his sensuous, divine words.

When at last the invocation was complete, silence lingered after the Prophet had lifted his arms in praise to the Forerunners. He hailed the coming of the Great Journey, and called down blessing for the final attack on the humans and recovery of the relics. As the Legion Master came and knelt at the Prophets side, Yipip and all others not required were released to go about their duties. The Unggoy toddled down the halls in haste, dodging the remaining crew members, especially the leering Jiralhanae. He checked that no one was close by, peeping around corners so as to avoid being discovered before he lifted open a duct covering. Crawling in, the grate swung closed leaving nothing amiss to those who would later pass by. Yipip hoisted his tunic in an unflattering manner to make his travel easier and began to make his way through the familiar vent. Winding this way and that, the trek took him past many other passages and coverings. Some he had foiled to leave open for his sneaking and a few were convenient access paths used by the Huragok. Yipip arrived at a downward turn which gave him a view through its grate into a faintly lit cubby below.

Lifting the covering, the Unggoy dropped down carefully onto a pallet of ratty blankets and dirty pillows. The Legion Master's slave stirred, lifting his head from beneath a layer of blankets and turning his bruised, sleepy face to his friend. The Sangheili boy rubbed at his eyes and winced as Yipip flopped himself down on the shabby bed.

The Legion Master would be kept busy with the Prophet for hours and not return to his quarters until the final assault was well underway. They had plenty of time.

The Unggoy took his friends mandibles in his chubby hands and looked the Sangheili's face over carefully. One of the slave's eyes was nearly swollen shut and a vessel had burst on his cheek leaving a dark, puddle mark. Blood had oozed through and dried to the wound in a thin crust. Releasing the small Sangheili's face, the Deacon removed a bundle from the folds of his tunic. It had become his custom to bring along various salves and healing ointments, a few bandages, and a tiny ration of food.

The Deacon passed the boy a wedge of thick, pilfered wafer and the Sangheili gnawed at it eagerly. Yipip had taken it as part of his duty to see to the slave's welfare when he found time away from official ministry. In specific terms, he found the slave's company more enjoyable than any other in the legion. The boy's voice was soft, not harsh and gravely like the other Sangheili. Unlike the remainder of the crew, he was not mean spirited. No, more than that, he was nice to Yipip. The slave's station was lesser even than the Deacon's, though susceptible only to the abuse of his master where the holy man took lumps from practically everyone, even the Kig-Yar. Besides, Yipip was certain the Legion Master was not feeding him properly. It wasn't bad enough the Shangheili leader was cruel, often beating the slave for no infraction at all, but he didn't even see to the boy's care as one would a dog.

Finished with the ration, the slave sat obediently while his wounds were tended to. Yipip's beady eyes traveled the battered face as he worked, dabbing away the crust of blood and smearing the wound with a healing balm. It was cool and tingly on the abused flesh. The Deacon returned his things to the bundle and tucked it back beneath his tunic, retrieving a worn book from a pouch on his hidden belt. The Sangheili boy's eyes lighted with excitement as he arranged the bedding into a nest and snuggled in, pulling a thin blanket over his slim shoulders. This was the best part of his day. The part when his friend would come with extra food and make his hurts stop. Sometimes, when his master was sleeping or away, they would play games in his tiny room, or Yipip would tell him stories about his home planet and try to teach him to read. But, this evening it was late and there would be no time for games or lessons. The Deacon would read a short story from the old book and the two of them would sleep curled together for a few hours and the slave would get to feel safe and loved for a small time before the Unggoy had to return to his duties about the ship.

* * *

The dropship hangar smelled pungently of the stench of Jiralhanae. Bodily filth and aromas generally suggesting poor attention to hygiene, those were the smells that assaulted 'Koridee's nose as he made his way to the dropship and his file. Even though all of the Jiralhanae who would be making the surface attack had been sent cycles before, the hangar _still_ reeked of their presence. The stench choked the Stealth Major just as surely as the anger that welled up at what the smell brought to memory. That such beasts had taken the place of Sangheili during the initial assault was beyond degrading.

Torsch was a devout man, strong in his conviction about the purity of the Great Journey. Like most Sangheili who had accepted the faith, he generally held his peace in the belief that the San'Shyuum perverted their position with the gods. Such disgraceful self-righteousness had befallen men of religion for eons, it was a thing to be endured with the hopes that not all were so corrupted. Still, his anger and frustration had simmered in the many, _many, _ hours as he waited for word to finally return that the city had been taken. This wrath flashed over as he rounded the dropship and saw the Deacon about his blessing of the troops.

The Sangheili snarled and gave the small holy man a hearty kick, sending the Unggoy tumbling and squealing across the deck. That was another thing: the San'Shyuum saw lazy miscreants as preachers of the faith.

'Koridee's men looked at him with detached expressions at this outburst, all well accustomed to his volatile temperament.

With a deep breath, Major 'Koridee straightened to his full height of just over seven feet, which was not comfortable given Sangheili's natural posture. He walked the line of his men addressing each with simple eye contact as a measure to reassure himself and gather his bearing now that some of his irritation had been spent. Everyone before him was a stealth soldier. All highly capable men clad in black and burgundy armor and armed with standard weapons and tools of the position. It was their duty to push past the line of war and follow mapping coordinates to the supposed hidden relics. His previous reservations aside, 'Koridee's faith in the Journey was strong. It was no less infuriating, but he had come to accept the presence of the Jiralhanae as simply a temporary test of conviction.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne; Outside Fort Champlain**

The Covenant had torn the city apart. Blood and guts and bodies and charred remnants were everywhere. The attack had come from all sides and lasted for days before an eerie silence had blanketed the battered and burned city and townships. A distant skirmish would peal across the growing dark and be put down with frightening swiftness. A dog would howl or a scream might ring out, but otherwise the Covies had made good on stamping the humans into submission, driving them into hiding, taking key locations, and slaughtering any who tried to stand in their way.

Amy leaned against a battered window frame looking out at the outline of buildings in the distance. Fires had burned themselves to smoldering embers that trailed smoke into the darkening night. Every now and then she could just catch the wink of a Covenant weapon somewhere in the distance on a rooftop or through a window. She was two blocks away from Fort Champlain but felt no closer than she had been when the crackling and booming of slipspace ruptures jerked her from bed.

It felt like months ago.

Letting the curtain fall back, Amy winced and muttered a curse against a nauseating wave of pain as she rolled along the wall and propped herself away from the window. In relative terms, she was seriously lucky. In the frantic struggle to make it from her civilian apartment to the Army installation, the Sergeant First Class had come upon several other soldiers and they had tried to make a legitimate run at getting to post. Not all of them made it this close.

The streets had been thronged with civilians grabbing at the soldiers and begging for help: chaotic masses asking what to do, how to get to the evac station, why the raid sirens weren't going off, what had happened to the power grid, why vehicles were suddenly dead and useless.

Amy didn't know what to tell them, she was just following training: training that said to get her ass to where the weapons and ammo were.

No matter how hostile the local relations had been with the governing body, everyone seemed determined the UNSC members had the answer and had dogged their heels.

Like magnets, as more soldiers made their way into the street they collected together in groups and held close even when Covenant troops began tearing through the civilians. Dropping into alleyways they did their best to fend off the aliens as utter carnage was wrought in the city streets. The stench of burning flesh and the shrill screams of doomed people permeated every sense as the hooting and roaring and worting of the enemy seemed to overcome even the sound of weapon's fire.

A few armed civilians and some rebel groups made a good stand with the soldiers, but in the end, it was only Amy and a green private who had been left to take refuge in a crumbling building as day waned into night, again.

Cory Trice was propped sitting against the wall in the corner, holding a Covenant rifle like a child would a stuffed animal, a line of drool trailing from his open mouth. He looked as rag-tag as Amy did. Like practically everyone else who had been taken by surprise, he was in a mish-mash of civilian clothes and battle uniform, with an arm resting on his assault helmet and strategic bits of body armor still in place over battle dress pants and a singed gray t-shirt.

In her haste to haul ass from her apartment, Amy had jumped into a rumpled pair of tac pants and managed to throw only her armor vest over the sheer silk top she had worn to bed. Boots and helmet were all she managed to add to the clothing before retrieving her personal rifle and cramming every extra loaded mag she could find into her pockets then scurrying out to the street.

In the end, it was the silk camisole that had done her in. She had almost made it round the brick corner of a storefront into an ally, but a well aimed shot from a plasma rifle had sizzled past, ghosting the unarmored curve of her waist below her tac vest and melting the fabric to the flesh from below her ribcage to the top curve of her hip. Despite how much the burn stung; or how dirty the wound probably was; or how she could feel the ooze of her own damaged skin and fluids from ruptured blisters gumming the fabric at the waist of her pants, that was the least of her present concerns.

The creepy stillness that had settled with the drawing night was beyond unsettling and in it Amy felt she could practically see the minutes tick painfully by as panic ebbed and rose in alternate measures. She could tell herself a thousand times she needed to kick Trice from his peaceful slumber so they could get a move on, but that didn't change the fact that none of the missiles from Nantes Arsenal had launched, or the fact that the comms systems in both of their assault helmets were, and had been, as quiet as death.

Her only guess was that the Covies had gotten wise and hit the area with an EMP and wiped all power and the colonial AI. That meant there had probably been no distress call. And, even if there had been, it could take weeks, or more likely months, for backup to arrive. Ambrosia II was on its own and now with the initial attack having reached a lull the Covies would sweep in anticipating finding Forerunner artifacts. When they didn't find any the planet would get glassed into oblivion just like all the others before it. The people could fight tooth and nail but the only things that could stand between them and certain death were five 10 ton Nassau surface to space missiles; and they weren't going anywhere without an AI or electricity to run the manual launch sequence and the damn codes.

At best, Amy knew that no matter what she did in the next few days or hours she would just live to die in the planet's eventual glassing.

It could have been worse, she supposed. Huddled in another room of the now dilapidated row house was a pair of armed civilians who had come along just before dusk. An older woman called Grand-mama Larouche, who didn't speak a word of English, and her massively pregnant granddaughter, Penny. They were the single most armed civilians Amy had come across and she couldn't help but wonder if they were in fact rebels or had raided a rebel safe house. She didn't care, having civvies along would slow them down but she couldn't just let….aww, hell, who was she kidding, they weren't going anywhere but to glassy graves.

The one Amy felt worst for was Penny. The young black woman was almost six months pregnant with twins she would never see or hold. In light of that, Amy didn't feel she had much in her own life worth missing. She had been raised by her grandparents when the courts awarded them custody but they were both dead. There had been few men in her life and none worth wasting the brain power to think about. She had no kids, no family she claimed, she had thought about getting a cat once, but had settled for a plant she promptly killed…and her career was about to die with her so, that was pretty much it. While Private Trice continued to snooze the last hours of his life away and Grand-mama Larouche read passages from a battered Bible aloud to Penny in the other room, all Amy had to comfort her was personal emptiness and the memory of a dead houseplant.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

**Enemy Military Installation  
**

Chatter from the battle net had risen to its usual crescendo and fallen to the low and intermittent murmur of victory. Because of the Legion Master's cunning, the Jiralhanae had been sent with the first wave to take advantage of initial human numbers and arms. Unfortunately, it had taken longer than anticipated, _much longer,_ to cut through and break human control, despite the surprise of the attack. As Stealth Major 'Koridee and his file disembarked the Phantom which set them inside the colonial authority, scores of human remains greeted them as evidence of a rigorous resistance.

Reports indicated the initial assault had been slowed by the sheer number of humans which flooded the area. The tenacity, if not bravery, of attempting a defense which hinged on overwhelming the opposition by force of numbers did occur to 'Koridee as respectable. Sangheili troops had reported stronger resistance within the authority. Unfortunately, they also noted that the Jiralhanae had been prone to losing focus when provoked by even unarmed humans and had spent hours trying to chase them down in bouts of brutish and unnecessary posturing. There was little doubt this lack of focus needlessly wasted time and was the cause of delay in calling for the second wave.

It was unusual that establishing control of a strategic location should take so long. It was not required that all humans be eradicated, just those who stood in the way and posed a threat to mission success. Ordinarily, operations which encompassed the recovery of artifacts extended no farther than the time necessary to secure access to the quarry. All remaining humans would be exterminated in the planet's glassing and were not worth the effort to pursue them. This operation had already been hindered somewhat by the Jiralhanae and, despite a growing excitement at moving in to take the relics, Torsch felt a hint of unease at having so many of the unpredictable beasts assisting in holding the line.

* * *

**Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Yipip made his way through the ventilation duct, scurrying along to one of many grates the Unggoy had left as a backup for undetected sneaking. He had left his friend and set off to the closest exit only to find a group of Kig-Yar lingering and in no apparent hurry to leave the area. The Deacon had to backtrack and loop around through a confusing and long alternate route. He had almost made it to his destination when voices drew him to a shaft which opened into the Jiralhanae's quarters.

"…must be crushed. The High Prophet of Truth has commanded their allegiance but 'Berovai and his men are too dangerous, they will be afforded no opportunity to bend…", that was the Prophet's voice. The Deacon crawled ever closer and from his place near the deck could see the shadow of Humility's throne and a pair of clawed, furry feet. The Prophet spoke again, "The Age has already begun to pass and it is time the remainder of the Jiralhanae take their rightful place."

Yipip felt a hint of fear settle into his stomach.

"As you have said it, Holy One," though the Deacon didn't dare creep closer to see, he knew without a doubt the voice belonged to the Jiralhanae who served as pack leader for those sent along with the legion. Izakkus was a foul, degenerate creature who leered at Yipip's friend with open, hateful lust when 'Berovai and the other Sangheili were not looking.

"Understand this," Humility said calmly, "every one of them must perish, from 'Berovai to his slave, let no Sangheili live. In the hour of their death you will stand at my right hand as master of this legion and even the Hierarchs shall know of your faith."

Yipip felt his guts turn at what was being said. The Prophets moved to betray the Sangheili, the highest of the Hierarchs had ordered it, his friend was in danger.

Izakkus' rumbling answer broke the Deacon's thoughts, "Communications have been rigged. The trap is already sprung, my liege."

Yipip backed away from the tunnel.

"It is well then," the Prophet said like a soft, holy proclamation, "Finish it: take these ships. When next we meet, you will etch the rune on this planet's surface and send the last of these Sangheili to hell with the humans."

With that, the Deacon ran quietly away.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne**

There were nine people crammed into the flooded basement. Two were Ashmund's men and the rest looked to be random civilians. Lucinda had been found as she had hoped, but it seemed she was no better off. Between them, they had precious few weapons and no provisions. A woman and three small children; an elderly couple; and the rebels, Marc and Frederique, were hunkered down tight but in dier strates. The three with able bodies discussed going out to scavenge for weapons and try to find some food and clean water; and they had to venture out and try to make contact with others.

Lucinda went out with the two other rebels when they set off. As they slunk along in the shadows an eruption of violence seemed to spring from the blanket of relative quiet that had seemed to linger for hours. It was more than the Covenant coming upon a clutch of humans; it was louder and distinctly frenzied. No sound of human weapons rang out; no shouts in English or French; just alien bellows and weapons. As the small group moved along several Elites were seen dashing along an alley opening and a few seconds later a Brute and a handful of Jackals and Grunts emerged giving chase.

Marc peeped around the corner and ducked back with a confused expressed, "They fight each other," he muttered, almost in question.

Frederique and Lucinda only shrugged, taking this as perhaps a bit of good fortune. With the Covenant seemingly busy killing off their own, the humans made it to a corner station, the kind which was a suburban mecca of petrol, late night snacks, and alcohol and tobacco products. Lucinda had ducked down an aisle away from the shattered windows, plucking snack cakes and wrapped pastries from a shelf when Marc hissed for everyone to be quiet.

It felt like her heart would pound out of her chest as every tiny sound crept into her ears. She could hear footfalls outside the building; the chatter of Grunts and Jackals punctuated by the grumbling of a Brute; and the eerie electric crackle of their comms. Slowly creeping to the edge of the aisle, Lucinda peeped around a display for potato chip bags and saw a Brute sniffing the air while Jackals picked at street garbage and fought over a dead cat. Two Grunts waddled to the broken window and raised on tiptoes to peep in. Afraid to move and risk being seen, she watched as one nudged the other with an elbow and whispered something.

His enunciation of the word _'human' _set her insides on fire.

But, the Brute baked at them and both creatures yelped and waddled away. Lucinda sank to the floor and hugged her bounty for a few moments, trying to get her breathing and heartbeat under control. Her arms tingled and her toes felt numb in the wash of adrenaline.

"_Mademoiselle,"_ Frederique's dingy face appeared at the end of the isle, "we go," he whispered in heavily accented English.

Deléon rose to her feet and began creeping to the end of the aisle in a hurried crouch. The shelf was canted at an angle and she could see Marc standing just outside the back door as the blue light of the moons fell across him and the alley beyond. Frederique was waving frantically as Lucinda rushed for it.

Then, her face slammed into an unseen barrier and her head was thrown back as she staggered to keep her footing. She dropped cellophane wrapped cakes and clutched her nose as blood gushed through her fingers. Looking up, the expressions of horror on her companion's faces flickered through a shimmering haze as a veil of liquid silver broke directly before her and active camouflage dissolved to reveal an Elite. He rose from his haunches and turned to her.

Black armor was scuffed and dented and there was a neat hole in his chest plate leaking a trail of drying blood down his torso. Lucinda could see the shine across one of his orange eyes through a shattered patch in his helmet. Her breathing became ragged pants as the creature cocked his head. She felt her mind begin to swim as he lifted a hand to his face and placed an index finger against the nose of his closed helm in a gesture she recognized.

Despite this, she opened her mouth to scream and the Elite grabbed her, striking forward like a coiled snake and wrapping one hand around her head and closing the other over her mouth. He twisted her up against his chest as she wriggled and flailed, swatting at him with a pastry.

The door slammed from behind them and the Elite snarled, pulling Lucinda with him as he backed down an aisle out of view of the windows. He grappled to hold her against him as gunfire and shouts in French came from beyond the back door in the alley. Lucinda could hear the squawk and squeal of Jackals and Grunts as they returned fire. Yelps and growls seemed to start coming from everywhere as the Elite continued to clutch the human girl, backing into a corner and activating his camouflage, closing them both in a rippling shroud.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back as they listened to the sounds of feet scuffing outside with the yapping of aliens. There was a growling bark of a Brute and Lucinda squirmed against the Elite still holding her, bucking and trying to free herself to run, tears falling from her eyes and pooling with the blood still dripping from her nose. The creature held his arm tight around her and hushed into her ear as she sobbed quietly into his hand.

* * *

"Uh…what the actual fuck is going on out there, Sarge?" Cory Trice asked.

The Private and Sergeant First Class Starr had woken an hour or so before when fighting broke out anew, only this time there was hardly a sound of humans involved. The two had risked scurrying up a skewed fire escape and had to climb through a window to get to an internal stairway which would take them to the rooftop. There, Amy watched through the optical of a sniper rifle Grand-mama Larouche had insisted she take and Trice looked through a spotter scope Penny had offered to behold the Covenant attacking…themselves?

Whatever the hell was going on down there, the Elites had been taken by surprise and were getting their asses handed to them. Something had shifted and the Brutes were turning on the Elites. Grunts and Jackals seemed unsure of which side to be on, but most picked the winning side: the Brute's side. Then, a few humans could be seen rallying behind the Brutes and numbers distinctly shifted. The Elites no longer had the upper hand. Their forces were being pushed back and mowed down. The aliens no longer seemed concerned with the humans but were more preoccupied with each other.

"I have no idea," Amy said.

Cory was silent for a moment, "Why would they do that?"

Starr just shrugged from behind her rifle as a line of civilians took advantage of the alien's diverted attention and dashed through the open front gate of post, "I don't like it," she added, squashing the hope that had risen in the private's voice.

"Maybe they've just…or maybe it's…" Trice tried to talk it out, but it was obvious there was no explanation that would do, "Shouldn't we like…uh…."

Amy turned her head and looked at him.

"I mean," Cory continued, still watching through the spotter scope, "this is good, right? That whole, _'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'_ thing, yes? That means they're on our side now."

Amy squinted at him and he turned to look at her pleadingly, "Right?"

It would have been nice to be able to believe that, like apparently so many others did. But, this war had been going on for over two decades and it seemed a bit unlikely the Covenant had decided to stop exterminating humanity and had instead just turn on their own. Having read the declassified accounts from Harvest, Amy had no delusions the Brutes had suddenly decided to make nice. No, there was something else going on and they just happened to be getting a front row seat.

Cory returned his gaze to the spotter scope then whispered, "Oh, _shit."_

Amy lowered her cheek to the rifle just in time to see the last of a cluster of armed civilians and a few soldiers and police who had been flanking a duo of Brutes get shot down for their efforts to aid in attacking the Elites. Something clicked together in Amy's mind, "The enemy of my enemy," she repeated Trice's words.

"What the hell is _going on_?" Cory asked, sounding genuinely distressed.

"I don't know, but come on," Amy muttered, rising to her knees, collapsing the bipods and slinging the rifle before collecting her feet and heading for the stairway, "we're going to go and see if we can't make a few friends."

* * *

**Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

The Unggoy ran, or, stumbled his way through the ventilation shafts, his tunic catching under his hurried feet and sending him sprawling several times in his haste. Over and over his mind played the conversation he had heard. Images of what the Jiralhanae would do to his friend made the methane lodge in his throat. Loosely held faith in the Journey and once complete devotion to the Prophets failed him at the thought of 'Berovai's slave set upon by Izakkus. The Sangheili were unkind, callous; but their nasty temperaments and poor dispositions paled in comparison to the outright vulgar brutality of the Jiralhanae. Now, a new level of barbarism stood to be unleashed and set as rule. Unggoy being cowardly by nature, Yipip would always choose the lesser of two evils. Besides, the Legion Master may have been unduly harsh and abusive but he wouldn't kill his slave; and he would never allow the slight boy to be used as a sexual plaything.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Yipip swung aside a grate and jumped down to land on a pile of familiar, ratty bedding. He rolled and waddled and stood in the small, dark floor space and without any consideration for the ramifications of such a move, the Unggoy burst through the door and spilled out into the Legion Master's quarters.

Sicera 'Berovai was sitting at his desk, one elbow on the polished top and his chin in an upturned palm as he cradled the other hand against his cup of hot tea. The aroma tickled his nose. Exhaustion pulled at him, the kind born of mental fatigue and physical inaction. With the last of his ground forces deployed he was anticipating another half cycle for the recovery of the artifacts, then he could meet with his commanders before heading to the bridge for the ceremonial glassing under the watchful eye of the Prophet. Though he was rested, 'Berovai had not slept since before the engagement began. He did not have a habit of taking such leisure while his men were on the battlefield, a few hours alone was sufficient.

It was not as if having an Unggoy rush flailing into his quarters was a surprise: that would imply a level of thought that such a thing might happen in some twisted, alternate universe. No, having the Deacon tumble uninvited into the Legion Master's personal quarters from the slave's lodging was simply not something his mind had cause to imagine as ever being a possibility. When it happened, Sicera watched from his desk in stunned silence as the panting, panicked creature froze as if suddenly appreciating his blunder. 'Berovai was so shocked it did not even occur to him to be angry. While certainly not amused, the Legion Master did feel a twinge of sick interest at this happening.

"Deacon?" he rumbled in mock amiability, closing his hands casually around his steaming cup and regarding the increasingly frightened Unggoy with a blank expression.

Yipip first stood staring at his friend who stared back with a look of utter horror from behind the bit of armor he was polishing, then the Deacon startled with a squeal when 'Berovai spoke. The Unggoy swallowed hard and tried to think straight as the seconds ticked past. He thought he would pass out when the Sangheili leader slowly rose, any initial entertainment clearly exhausted just that quickly.

"My lord, I have come because…" Yipip rasped, finding his voice unwilling in the face of a massive warrior who casually lifted an energy sword hilt and activated the weapon without so much as setting down his warm beverage.

Sicera paused when the Unggoy hit his knees, hands clasped as if pleading, before falling on his face with a scream, "They have betrayed you!"

The Legion Master let his eyes study the trembling creature in a heap on his floor. What blasphemy the holy man had spoken put a chip in his irritation and piqued his interest as he deactivated the sword, "Rise," he snorted.

The Unggoy did as he was told, still visibly shaking and struggling to his feet on wobbly, uncooperative legs. His gaze lingered on the sword hilt still clasped at the ready in the Legion Master's hand.

The Deacon's words began to take hold and the gravity of this unprecedented happening sank in; but 'Berovai contained his unease and sipped at his tea. Then, casually setting the cup, but not the sword, aside he kept his eyes on the Unggoy, "Speak," he said in a low rumble, "but mind your words, while I have no want I surely have less qualms with killing a lowly servant of the Prophets."

Yipip suddenly felt the need to pee himself but he held strong. His little courage was bolstered by the reminder that 'Berovai had never been a believer in the Great Journey. He was just another Sangheili wooed by the prospect of power and had no love for the Prophets or their pretty words,

"It was a trap," the Deacon hooted.

'Berovai folded his arms across his wide chest, "Go on," he sneered.

"The Prophets conspire with the Jiralhanae," the Unggoy said, "Izakkus is to be Legion Master. Truth has already blessed the slaughter," 'Berovai straightened, his eyes flashing fury. While Yipip was sure the Sangheili was going to kill him he blurted, "You are too dangerous, Humility says you all must die! It has already begun!"

'_I believe…it is for more than is claimed,' _his friends parting words snaked through Sicera's mind as a flash of rage ignited his veins.

* * *

**New Saint Etienne  
**

Lucinda remained crushed against the Elite long after the sound of footsteps and hoots of victory faded. Eventually, the alien slowly began to release his vice-like hold. Lucinda slid down into his lap and, despite her fear, she leaned her head against his stomach, refusing to unclench her hands from the creatures big arm. A liquid shimmer slid across her as active camouflage receded and the Elite shifted to set her on her feet. She continued to cling to his hand and he didn't move to detangle his fingers as he gracefully rose and looked down at her.

"Where are your weapons, human?" he asked.

She blinked up at him then, "I don't…" she paused, pulling her father's pistol from beneath layers of clothing at her waist band, "this is all I have," she said almost apologetically.

He cocked his head at her offering, his orange eye looking from her to the antiquated handgun before he reached out and lifted it from her grasp. He nodded, a gesture which surprisingly resembled appreciation, before he shook loose her hand and moved carefully across the scattered room to a side door.

"Wait, why did you do that?" Lucinda whispered as she followed close behind, "Why did you…"

He snaked his head around, eye narrowed and shining from behind the broken visor of his helm, "Did you wish to die?"

She gaped at him, "No."

"Neither did I," he said solemly, "Are there more like this?" he asked, lifting her father's pistol.

Lucinda nodded, "Some, but…"

"Then we go to where they are. You will show me," his tone did not invite an argument, and truthfully, she didn't have a better plan.

The two of them crept from the store and Lucinda did her best to retrace the steps taken to get back to the basement hiding place. She felt a bit guilty for not thinking to grab even a morsel of food for the others and more than a little concerned at leading an Elite right to them.

As she began down the sloped alleyway, she realized her concerns were nowhere close to what they should have been.

Blood and bits of flesh spilled from the open door and singed black marks dotted the exterior walls and ground. With legs trembling, Lucinda dared to peek into the hide-out through the canted and destroyed door. The Elite materialized from his camouflage as a tiny squeak escaped her throat.

Everyone had been torn to pieces…blown to pieces. Amid a soup of foul water; blood and innards; random, fleshy bits that seemed splashed onto the walls were bits of clothing and a tiny shoe floating upside down. She turned to her new companion as if for an answer and one side of his head exploded.

Purple blood, brain matter, shards of helmet, and flesh and bone hit her in the face and Lucinda screamed as the Elite pitched forward then back and collapsed at her feet. She clamped a hand over her eye, feeling hot ooze against her palm. Backing away, she stepped through the door into the basement. Her feet slipped on gore and she fell awkwardly and slammed her head against the concrete. Darkness closed in on her periphery as the burly mass of a Brute filled the doorway and consciousness mercifully slipped away as he stepped forward into a pillar of moonlight with a predatory smile.

* * *

As the humans had sensed some perverse victory at hand, Sangheili had been cut down en masse. The fresh corpses of his brothers could be found scattered along with the bloated remains of humans as Torsch crept along side streets. Along the way, newly dead humans were evidence that the Jiralhanae had turned back on their temporary allies to slaughter them. Confusion had ensued and human and Sangheili alike had been driven to the necessity of retreat in the wake of diminishing arms and overwhelming opposition at dwindling numbers.

The Major and his file had just made entry into one of the human buildings when the onslaught began and, because of their stealth, had remained out of sight. At first they had been able to aid their brothers unseen but not completely undetected. He had lost three good men to the madness which followed and countless others whose names he did not know lay dead.

Confused, tormented, enraged, bereft…Torsch conceded and led the remainder of his soldiers from the instillation to the littered, crumbling streets of the human city. His misery and turmoil was only compounded by the lack of contact with or from the legion ships.

He could not understand and the devastation of what he _had_ seen swirled against refusal to believe his own eyes. 'Koridee told himself this was just temporary, that as soon as he and his men could lay hands on sufficient arms they would take up again against the treacherous Jiralhanae. He reassured himself this was not the move of a coward, though atop all else that was how he felt.

It now appeared a few of the humans had already backed some of the Sangheili and, in continued desperation, had taken a stand to keep the Jiralhanae from engaging in the hunts they were wont to take up. A small collection of Kig-Yar and Unggoy remained faithful to their legion and the blurred line of allegiances appeared to slowly become clearer. Otherwise, it was insanity.

Warriors and lesser soldiers shucked their comms systems to avoid detection and better hide in the battered city. Their numbers could not be counted if their comms were dark and the Jiralhanae would actually have to work to find them without the integrated tracking systems giving them away once in range.

Torsch felt as if his senses were both exhausted and on fire. He did not trust himself, he could not trust anything. So, when he and his men had holed up in an alleyway to ready scavenged weapons, allow camouflage to recharge, tend their numerous wounds, and a pair of humans had stepped from around a corner, the Stealth Major had at first stared at them in open numbness.

_Would it be more honorable to die at the hands of humans than Jiralhanae? _

'Koridee and a few of his men got to their feet but hesitated to take aim at the humans which simply stood there looking back, neither one making a move to wield the weapons they clearly possessed. The shorter of the two took careful steps forward, walking until she was within striking distance of Torsch. The Stealth Major held a barely active plasma pistol but was absolutely certain he could conserve his fire and pistol whip this brazen human female then tear her apart with his hands before she could bring her rifle to bear.

"I know you don't like our weapons, but I promise, _this,_" she said evenly, jiggling the rifle balanced across her shoulder, "is a whole lot better than _that_," she flicked her chin toward his pistol and hefted the long gun, clearly offering it to him.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**New Saint Etienne  
**

The Sangheili had not yet decided to trust the humans who came bearing weapons; but as they eyed the newfound allies cautiously a smattering of shots rang out to quickly convince them. Acting in accord, both groups scattered and sought cover, digging in against the presence of a tenacious young Jiralhanae leading a band of opportunistic Kig-Yar. The lesser were disposed of with minimal effort and usage of ammunition. Watching their fellows fall after being urged forward caused several of the weaker species to retreat once they realized their lives were of no value to the brutish beast driving them forward. That and the prey was far more armed than anticipated. The Jiralhanae was enraged to the point of stupidity and gaped and howled at his scampering underlings. The humans were remarkably in tune and the beset group moved as a whole to back farther down the tight alleyway. Dumb with outrage, the furry young beast gave chase.

Having pilfered and donned poorly fitting armor the Jiralhanae was more difficult to down, but not invulnerable. Torsch soon realized one of the humans was disturbingly accurate with a projectile weapon, at least at fairly close range. One of the furry monstrosity's knees crumpled in a burst of blood and bone as armor gave way and the creature pitched forward. He hit the concrete with a roar of both frustration and pain and the human female heedlessly stepped from behind cover. 'Koridee took little notice of the fact that her pistol shots were true into the Jirlahanae's snarling face, he was more focused on the stream of Needler shards streaking toward her from the dying animal's weapon.

It was purely impulse on his part, given the Sangheilis' collective situation and 'Koridee's shattered state of mind. In his world, women were a viciously defended resource and male pride compelled him to ensure she was not hurt. Betrayed in that moment by instinct, the fact she was a human completely failed to register.

Launching himself, Torsch swept her gracelessly from her feet out of the line of fire, causing her to lose her weapon and helm. A few hot shards peppered and brought down his already weakened shields as he cleared the alley opening. The passage was narrow and he wound up slamming into an adjacent wall, doing his best to protect her unarmored head and shield her while he gritted his teeth. Sharp, minute fragments traversed the lines in his armor slicing through the layer of his bodysuit. It was a painful reminder of one of the many reasons female Sangheili were not allowed in combat. Males were predisposed to being protective at the risk of their own lives and safety even when it was insensible or completely unnecessary. And, at the moment, all of those tiny shards of Needler shrapnel were _unnecessarily _imbedded into his skin because of his damnable sense of honor and her female aggrandizing_._

For Amy, there was a moment where the world stopped and everything became a numb blur of white. No sound, no feeling, just a blink of nothing as her brain shorted out in surprise at her body being assailed full tackle then slammed to a sudden, hard stop. All of the air was forced from her chest and panic rose as her lungs struggled against muscles temporarily stunned into paralysis. Adrenaline ebbed and her chest burned while her mind screamed for oxygen. She wondered if this was how she would die: smothered by an Elite.

The rise and fall of his chest as he panted for air was a torment in the seconds it took for her body to right itself and finally give her the relief of drawing a full breath. It hurt and Amy was fairly certain she now had at least one broken rib to add to the festering burn which was crying its own neglect and abuse. She involuntarily slacked against him, feeling the smooth plating of his armor press into her exposed skin as he cradled her head, having shielded her bodily. It took seconds for some sense of order returned to her brain and Amy became uncomfortably aware of his closeness; the way his imposing body was intrusively molded against every inch of her own, his chin was tucked securely against her head, and thick arms were wrapped around her. She was effectively secured by an alien cocoon.

A human shout of victory and few Sangheili worts of newly appreciated camaraderie sounded out, but Torsch wanted little more than to curse the woman he had held still bundled in his arms and pinned against the wall for the_ irrational_ _female _she was. The admonition was there; adequately formed in the human language she had spoken and he somewhat understood; welling up with as much indignation as he could rightly keep under control; but when he lifted his head and looked down at her she was blinking up at him as if stunned and struggling to regain the breath he had no doubt knocked from her. A trail of red human blood slid from a split in her lip.

She looked up at the Elite who still held her pinned against the wall and there was a crack and a pop as his helmet came unsealed. Plates at the fore separated at seams and receded mechanically back into the armor covering his head to reveal most of his face.

"_Oh, God_," she heard herself groan.

It wasn't so much in revulsion at his alien appearance as surprise because he was not what she expected. There were there usual freakish differences, but his complexion was a light shade of bronze and not overtly…scaly. She knew Sangheili were diverse in tones and textures but she was not prepared to see one with skin that so closely resembled a human's. Tiny iridescent freckles which dotted his snout and mandibles added an almost childish look to his intently curious and attentive expression and completely belied the inherent danger he would have presented a few short hours before. Then, as if that weren't enough, Amy looked up and found herself awed silent when she gazed into the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen in any creature's head. Pale sage orbs were cut with inky slits ringed with bright violet that radiated out and fractured the green like a slipspace rupture.

"Your mouth is bleeding," he said in awkward but passable English. His voice was so deep it did little more than involuntarily notify her of how frighteningly male he was…which just reminded her of how really, very, too close he still was.

"I'm fine," she squeaked.

"You are injured," he responded undeterred, reaching toward her face. The gauntlet retracted into the armor of his forearm revealing a freakishly not-quite-human looking hand.

She squirmed and shied away from him as best she could with wide eyes. Torsch paused, realizing she was afraid and gave her an amused head tilt, "I am not going to maul you, human," he mocked.

Amy found her voice and did her best to cover anxiety and an unsettling sense of _other weirdness _the only way she knew how, "Good," she said, clearly struggling to breathe, "because that's more of a _second date_ thing."

Cognizant thought ceased as the seconds ticked past and Torsch tried to reason that she was _not _making some kind of perverted implication. She looked up at him and one side of her mouth lifted into a guileless smile and he felt his temper sizzle. Anger that a human would attempt to engage him in this wicked female sport was dampened only by mortification because of how historically and completely inept he was in dealing with women.

The Elite released her, jerking away with almost as much violence as he had snatched her up. With no time to ready her feet, Amy let out an _eep _as she hit the ground with surprised ankles and unprepared knees, her legs buckling beneath her. He made a startled expression and seemed to reflexively step forward with terrifying speed and grab her by her upper arms to keep her from falling, hauling her up against his chest.

She struggled to get her feet beneath her and turned her face, full of open entertainment and confused trepidation, to him again, "What is it with you and the touching?" she smirked, shaking his hands loose, "Can't a girl just be helpful and not get felt up?"

He let go roughly and stepped back, purple flooding across his mandibles and snout. Amy couldn't help the broad grin that spread across her face, _oh, holy shit, he's blushing._

Her expression was both a threatening display of teeth and shamelessly flirtatious and 'Koridee felt a deeper wave of heat wash across his skin anew at both her glee and the implication.

The armor of his helm protracted and snapped closed back over his face, "Do not flatter yourself, _human_," he hissed, sounding very put upon.

Amy straightened and moved to retrieve her pistol and helmet, "Uh-huh," she laughed, ineffectively concealing her amusement at his expense.

Torsch audibly seethed, "I would not dishonor myself with _you_," he growled as she plopped her helmet back on her head and holstered her pistol.

Amy turned back feigning disappointment, "Oh, gee," she mused with caustic sarcasm, "and I was so hopeful."

* * *

He was not a man disposed to fear. Every waking moment of his adult life had been spent plotting the day he would see the UNSC overthrown on a colony world, himself placed in their stead, and those remaining bending to his will. It had taken years, decades of scraping and murdering his way to the top of an insurgent movement; lies to civilians; undermining of the UEG; acquiring wealth by all means necessary; and obtaining resources enough to make that goal a reality. Despite this, the crawling sense of his own demise, and the end of all his efforts, nestled in the pit of Azrael Ashmund's stomach. As he had watched dropships descend and take up Brutes in number, he could not help but notice they converged only on the largest ship lingering in the sky and increasingly took only ranking Brutes. Though past experience told him he would likely see plasma bombardment begin within the hour of this evacuation, something odd about the whole happening presented itself as a potential personal opportunity.

The aliens did not move to withdraw all troops, or to recover their armament; and not _any_ of the more lowly species which had given loyalty in the bizarre internal strife were retrieved. Many Brutes remained even after several movements. The more he observed, the more Azrael came to see those left behind clearly moved to act as if on specific orders.

He watched the partial and intermittent exodus from the cracked and shattered window of a middle building apartment. The now shabby hide-out once towered to the east of the city proper. It wasn't Azrael's palatial abode, but then, those accommodations no longer existed. The building he now took up in was poor by comparison, even before being ravaged by the Covenant attack. But, it provided a lovely and informative view.

The floors below crawled with rebel fighters who had converged when their best laid plan was usurped by the need to live. Even now, with traditional communications gone, stragglers wandered in as scouts were sent out to gather as many of the insurgents and discarded weapons as possible.

Having the powers of persuasion and all the conscience of a sociopath, Ashmund had never wanted for having his most basic desires met. Well, vices more than desires, Azrael's only true cravings were for power and women. Standing in the dilapidated remains of a once beautiful apartment, watching as a summer storm gathered momentum in the distance with flashes of lightening and moved to blanket the city, it had appeared as if his greatest desire was to be wrenched from his grasp. Only, as rain began to fall and the lower floors of many other buildings were shrouded in steam and obscure darkness, it appeared as if what he wanted most was suddenly making itself as open and available to him as one of his many mistresses.

Turning from his view, Azrael clasped a hand thoughtfully to his chin as his eyes moved calmly across the room, "Joseph," he said, bringing the slumped, dirty, rumpled man near the far door to his feet. More than twenty years Ashmund's junior, Joseph Edwards was his right hand, if ever he was to acknowledge one as such, "assemble a scouting party and send them to me."

* * *

It was raining. An angry storm had crawled across the sky to blanket the war torn region in almost perpetual darkness. Summer rain born of an atmosphere aggravated by disruption came down in sheets of sweetness that stifled the foul smell of rot and death.

Torsch sat on the floor near an open window. He was on an upper story of the dwelling he and his troops shared with their collection of human companions, trying to sulk in privacy. Sitting with his legs stretched out and a human rifle propped against the wall nearby, he watched with arms folded across the window sill from the cloak of active camouflage as dropships once again made lazy descent through the clouds in waves.

'Koridee felt a sense of growing emptiness. The movement had begun the evening before and the last scrap of his sanity had drained away with the realization of what was happening. First there had been the blooming hope of reinforcements sent from the legion, and some right to be set from this madness; only to make the rooftop and see the troop transports lifting off from well within the protected barricade with the higher ranked Jiralhanae before taking up to _Vengeant Shepherd. _Movement had been made in short bursts, and Torsch could only guess that the beasts had found the coup of overtaking the deadliest Covenant legion ever in existence much more difficult than they had planned.

The notion should have made him feel _something_, be it pride or outrage, hope or disgust, but the Stealth Major found he felt an empty, bottomless pit of nothing. Though his mind could still not fathom what had happened a part of him insisted that everything he had known and worked for was slowly coming to some unknown, unforeseen end. He had been faithful, but for some reason his gods had forsaken him. The more time he spent with the humans the more he became convinced the most recent addition to his punishment had a name and her name was Amy. She had to be the work of devils.

Why the gods had deemed it fit to torment him this way was beyond him. First the Jiralhanae had been sent along with their awful stink; then the Brutes had turned traitors and attempted their own genocide in mutiny; then 'Koridee found himself reduced to _retreat _and accepting help from _humans_ only to be mocked by a…a…a _female. _

He did not trust women and he did not like humans, so in that she was twice damned. He should have just let her get her fool self killed. With a snort of self-disgust, Torsch recalled a painful hour of blindly digging Needler shrapnel out of his hide. If the burn of the entire situation had ended there he might have been able to take it.

It was insult enough he had stooped to accepting their assistance. At the time, doing something had seemed preferable to doing nothing but now, as the junior members of his remaining file conducted themselves like infants with new toys while his second-in-command sat increasingly smitten with the pregnant human woman, and they had all sank into a familiarity with these humans, Torsch wondered if he would not have been better off killing them before committing suicide.

They had even shared _their names _with these creatures. It was offensive enough his men had let slip his clan name but there was no way in nine hells he would voluntarily give any one of those humans the opportunity to call him by his common name: he would sooner die.

To top it all there was Amy making him extremely uncomfortable. It was not just because she was vulgar by the standards of his culture but because just when he found himself disgusted by her enough at the thought that she was a _human_ he was reminded that she was _female_. He hated even being near her. He especially hated that it seemed she was determined to think him some sexual miscreant. He did not like the way she made him feel. That was more than he wanted to deal with and far too much like having to tiptoe around women of his own species.

Though their last exchange had shut her up, much to his satisfaction, he knew she would find a way to make him regret it. She was a woman and it was only a matter of time until she twisted his words and threw them back at him.

* * *

Amy wiped a fine layer of soot and ash from the cracked mirror with a grimy hand. Bracing herself against the top of the chest of drawers in an upper room of the row house, she looked at her reflection in what little light was provided from a candle lit on the chest top. She was beyond filthy, splattered with dried blood and smudges of dirt and ash. Her hair was in a frazzled bun that had partially come loose. A dingy lock hung in a knotted clump to her shoulder. Despite the grime, all she could see were the usual things she had long learned to hate. They were the reasons she usually avoided mirrors. Her mouth was too wide and her lips were too full, her big doe eyes looked huge on her face and were dirty shade of blue.

Her whole life she had been told she was beautiful, but because of what had happened the summer she turned nine, Amy had never been able to see it. All she saw was a woman who was painfully thin and looked weak by the fault of genetics, with striking facial features that stuck out like beacons. Those things were what most men noticed, and had been the very ones her stepfather had complemented the most.

Amy closed her eyes and tried to keep a wave of nausea from overtaking her. Unhooking the catches on her tac vest, she shucked it to the floor then pulled a glass bottle from a pant pocket. She had retrieved the whisky from a downstairs cabinet and it looked like she was going to need it now for more reasons than she originally planned.

_Memories, _Amy's mind sneered as she broke the seal and proceeded to drain half the contents in an unbroken series of chugs, pulling the bottle from her lips and tipped it down her side. The sensation made her breath catch as one hundred proof soaked into the t-shirt she had tied around her waist and made its way across raw, damaged skin. She would have seriously killed for a shower and clean clothes and actual medical supplies and not to face whatever was lurking under the impromptu bandage.

Before the Covies had turned on their own and she and Trice had raced to the roof, Amy had found some clothing in the row house and made use of all the meager bathroom medical supplies to be found. She had doused the burn with peroxide and simply prayed the black t-shirt she wound around her waist was clean enough. Other than that, she didn't want to think about how gross the burn could be by now or how much this was probably going to hurt. And, she was sure not going to think that she had been goaded into facing all of that by a split-lipped, ass-bag.

Being offensive was a defense mechanism honed for the last thirty years. And, well, watching an Elite squirm had been kind of funny…all things considered. However, despite being comically embarrassed at first he had significantly upped the ante after hours of brooding.

Once everyone had settled in, it had not taken long for remaining caution to turn to curiosity. Most of the Elites had struck up a tentative friendship with Trice over the collective cache of weapons. They had even included him in on their banter and because the Sangheili could speak and understand English, mostly, a type of male bonding had ensued that obviously transcend species. Stealth Major Napolian Syndrome had abjectly refused to participate. She didn't really blame him at first and had felt a little guilty watching him sit and dig Needler bits from his arm. She had intended to offer to help but an angry hiss to one of his own who came near had changed her mind. After that, he seemed content to look sullen and pissed off and only speak to his men in their native language. Then, he began pacing the floor like a like a caged animal.

The other Major, Kote, had watched Penny in rapt silence as he sat on the floor with his chins propped on the heels of his hands staring at her round stomach. Finally, when she had eased down onto a couch he had scooted as near to her as he dared and reached to touch her belly, quietly asking when her egg would be laid. Amy had never seen Penny smile up until that moment and though the woman tried not to laugh, Grand-mama Larouch took enough notice to prompt for a translation. The old woman hooted her own amusement and Kote had straightened, cocking his head inquisitively at their obvious delight. That was when Stealth Major Ass-hole had paused and snorted something. Despite the fact that their language had all the melodious quality of rocks in a blender, the disdainful tenor of his voice was unmistakable. Amy had turned and glared at the reflective surface of his helmet.

"What did you say?" she questioned, having clearly heard the word 'humans'.

Kote angled his head the other way still innamored with Penny's round middle, "He says humans do not lay eggs because you are mammals..." then he had clicked his mandibles, "that you whelp your young _like dogs_."

_Like. Dogs. _

Though she would have preferred to think he had been reaching for an acceptable metaphor in the context of their evolutionary differences, Amy could not quite shake the feeling the Elite with a distinct social deficit was now deliberately being a dick. Despite her irritation, she let it go.

But, he didn't.

He had grumbled something else that sounded equally hateful and by the uncomfortable glances of the other Elites, Amy got the impression there was no chance in hell he hadn't meant either remark as an insult. She looked to Kote who vehemently refused to translate and Major Shit-head's crap got the better of her.

"Care to share your thoughts with the rest of the class, _'Koridee_?" she asked sardonically, with as much venom as she could muster. Though he had refused to give his name she had overheard the others speaking to him and when he paused mid-step, planting his feet and rounding his shoulders in a very alpha male gesture she knew she had guessed right and struck a nerve.

As they stood in an uncomfortable silence, she got the distinct impression he was thinking of all the many grotesque ways he was capable of dismembering her. Refusing to back down but unable to contain her discomfort, Amy had crossed her arms and tried to look petulant as she forced herself to keep glaring at him.

The armor on his face had clicked and retracted back and, to her horror, those beautiful green eyes had slowly raked across her from her face to her feet and back in an extremely predatory fashion. The move had left her feeling tingly and gross. If his plan had been to make her feel small and dirty and remind her of the distinct size and gender differences between them, it worked.

"You should see to that injury," he growled, "even _dogs _have the sense to clean their wounds."

_How…what?!_

She hadn't exactly been afforded a lot of time or the means to agonize over an extremely painful burn; excuse the shit out of her if she had been more concerned with _saving their asses_.

There were many things she had thought to say, but suddenly faltering courage had somehow won out. Sucking in a breath, Amy had stormed from the room and decided to raid the liquor cabinet she found in her previous snooping, intent on getting some actual rest by any means necessary. She still didn't know what was going on, but now she had shit from her past creeping into her memory, and that jack-ass's words had made her worry about her wound despite her previous determination to be fine.

With alcohol warming her stomach, Amy untied the t-shirt from around her waist. Skin peeled and air hit once protected nerves. The world tilted sideways and everything went completely black.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

**New Saint Etienne**

"_Do you really have to go this time, daddy?" she asked, trying unsuccessfully not to cry. _

"_Yes, pumpkin, I really do," Sergeant Major Brandon Starr said, stepping to swoop a nine year old Amy up into his arms, "but it's just for a little while, I'll be back before you know it," he tweaked her pixie nose playfully. _

Something cool touched her face and Amy tried to shy away. Though she felt as if she were flailing with all of her strength to swat off touches that threatened to bring her back to reality, threatened to take her father away again, she barely managed to lift her arms above the bedding and choke out, "No, don't go…" She was trapped in a hellish nightmare with all the emotional pain of a child who grew up to be a woman who remembered all too well what was to come and didn't want to face it again. The cold touch was gone and the brief flash of the present slid away and _they_ were there…

…_Those two men in uniform. The special uniform, not the one the soldiers wore every day: the one with the shiny black hat and lots of brass buttons. At first her heart leapt because through the frosted glass of the front door she thought one of the men was her daddy. But neither of them were; and they talked in quiet voices; and mom cried; and the men left. _

"_Momma__, when is daddy coming home?"_

"What is wrong with her?"

"_Amy, this is Jeff…" _

"Shush…make yourself useful and find some more blankets, she's sick."

"_Give him a chance, he's really nice,"; "He's not my daddy!"_

"Help me sit her up…Amy, drink this."

"_Amy, this is Jordan…"_

"I do not understand."

"_He's a fireman, he can show you the fire trucks,"; "No!"_

"Dehydration, general exhaustion, possibly infection…Your kind doesn't get sick?"

"_Amy, this is Demetrius…"_

"There should be no infection and I have no reference for this type of sickness."

"_He's a Marine, a pilot, doesn't that sound fun, sweetie?"; "Why did my daddy die and not you!" _

"N'Rule, Kote, go check the buckets on the roof, I need more water."

"_Amy, this is Greg…"_

"Were you a…a doctor?"

"_You can't be like this to everyone, Amy…No one will want a woman with a brat…I swear, if you were a dog, I'd have you put down,"; "I hate you!"_

"I was a school nurse. Help me sit her up….Amy, Amy listen….Amy, drink this."

_Time had no meaning as the grief of an all-consuming loneliness and sense of abandonment closed in. In mockery of her heartache, she could feel hands holding her, keeping her captive in the nightmare as a parade of men who could never take her father's place and stole her mother's attention played out. Names and faces blurred together; sight and sound fluctuated like ripples on water. Someone forced her to drink. They were talking. She could hear them over a feeling of loneliness and fear, a little girl left home alone while her mother was out with 'friends'; mommy changed, never seeming to acknowledge her child was hurting too. _

"Drink this."

_A face loomed into her mind as real as if he were right there: the monster from her living hell, "Amy, this is Todd, he's a policeman…we're getting married."_

"No! Get him away from me!" Amy shrieked, knocking the drinking container from Penny's hand sending water slinging across the room and the cup shattering to the floor. She nearly came up out of the bed, swinging as hard as she could with uncoordinated arms like a woman possessed.

Penny Larouche and Stealth Major 'Koridee each grabbed for her, both surprised by, and unprepared for, the sudden outburst. She had been out for days. Amy's clothing was slicked to her body and fine hairs clung to her sweat covered face. She wasn't nearly strong enough to get up and go anywhere, no matter what demons were chasing her through her delirium. Amy tried to spring from the bed but her body couldn't keep up with her mind's ambition and 'Koridee wrapped an arm around her waist, easily catching her as she pitched across his arm, half-limp as she fell. He hauled her back up into the bed and she kicked and wailed and scratched weakly at the Elite's face. Penny placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and tried to talk her down but she wasn't having it. Amy looked at them but it was clear she didn't see _them_ at all. There was so much terror in the other woman's faraway eyes it made Penny's heart ache.

"Don't touch me," Amy sobbed, body going lax as she slipped away from the present again with a whimper.

'Koridee shuffled back a few steps, face turned to the floor, clearly believing she was speaking about him and doing his best to look nonthreatening.

"Todd don't," Amy murmured with a pained expression, a single tear escaping her eye to slide down her reddened cheek. A sense of miserable uselessness and revulsion filled Torsch's stomach as he stood watching her loll her head back and forth as Penny shushed and cooed. He did not want to think about what was going on in her mind.

When she settled, Penny stood and stretched her back as Grand-mama Larouche came in making a tisking sound and muttering in unintelligible French. As the young pregnant female stepped away, Amy reached for her hand and cried in a hoarse whisper, "Please, momma…I didn't mean it..."

* * *

_**Legion of Recompense**_**; Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Izakkus licked the hastily stitched wound to his forearm and grumbled angrily to himself. He sat crouched on a storage container in the ship's hangar bay glowering at a decrepit bunch of Jiralhanae, Unggoy, and Kig-Yar as they milled about. They were all exhausted, disheartened, and he was barely able to hold any sense of cohesive control. Fortunately, dropships were inbound from the surface, again, hauling in more reinforcements. It was unpleasant enough to have had to admit his available men were incapable of wresting control, but add to that the fact the Sangheili crew were able to successfully drive the coup back and Isakkus soon realized he had to recall some of his ground force in order to even consider taking the command center. Days had turned, and it seemed he would have to recall every able bodied man to insure success. Each minute that ticked by the pack leader became more and more livid…and increasingly unsettled.

Legion Master 'Berovai had proven crafty beyond the Jiralhanae's comprehension and that was infuriating. Though the Prophet's instruction had been enough to compel most of the lesser species to betray the Sangheili, the element of surprise had clearly been lost. 'Berovai had emerged in a rage and had rallied his own men with terrifying determination and an unexpected offensive.

Humility was now dead but that was the least of the pack leader's concerns. Though he desperately want to forcibly take his rightful place in control of the vessel, he could not help but understand that all the men who had stayed to take control under his command had met the Prophet's fate. Jiralhanae corpses littered the halls. Lines of Sangheili had formed and managed to keep their leader and the vessels controls protected. It was unthinkable that Izakkus could not take this ship with the crew he had reserved.

All because of_ one_ man.

'Berovai had seemed completely mad. In the few moments Izakkus had personally observed him in action the Sangheili had displayed a level of malice the Jiralhanae had never see of the species and could not help but grudgingly admire; though it nearly cost him his own arm.

Izakkus realized his troops were completely outmatched when a clutch of Sangheili slipped past and barged through defensive positions to rush the command center. Izakkus had led a charge intending to catch the group between his own forces and those already stationed inside but it did not turn out as he had imagined. While six Sangheili took through the doors and began their own slaughter, 'Berovai had turned alone and faced the hoard advancing down the hall. Unggoy and Kig-Yar had faltered, fearful even to fire on him and fled outright. Izakkus had watched from a distance, anticipating seeing the former Legion Master cut down by two strapping young Jiralhanae only to see the man tear through them as if they were but helpless cubs. He was completely incensed; beyond all rationality. The look of determination in the Sangheili's eyes had made Izakkus' blood run cold. The pack leader's resolve lurched in that moment and he had stood dumbly holding a rifle and watching as 'Berovai tore through the men with nothing more than a single energy sword and a short plasma blade.

One was cleanly beheaded and the other disemboweled. Both were sent to their knees in a collective pile of one another's fluids. Then, covered in blood and clumps of singed fur, the Sangheili had lobbed the bloodied head of the decapitated man at Izakkus like a sickening grenade. He had been so stunned that the Legion Master was almost on him when his senses returned. Still numb and disbelieving of what he had witnessed, Izakkus had only the time to shield his own neck, feeling the blade of an energy sword cut through his hide clean to the bone as he fell back firing into the madman. 'Berovai retreated to the bridge, leaving Izakkus to scramble to his feet and run away.

That disturbed the pack leader. The Legion Master would not have been injured enough to force withdrawal from the fight, even if Sangheili were known to do such a thing. Though he was doubtless smarting from his wounds it didn't make sense. Yet, 'Berovai _had _simply let his intended usurper leave. Reports now indicated the command center was barricaded from within and somehow bands of Sangheili had fortified all along the halls leading to the entrance. The Prophet's mangled corpse had been tossed out in a heap with murdered Jiralhanae and other dead as just another bit of fleshy cover.

'Berovai still had control but Izakkus knew the Sangheili's personal honor would not allow him to abandon his warriors. By now the Legion Master would have accessed the communiqués: he would know the extent of the betrayal. The Jiralhanae's only remaining hope was that the breadth of the Sangheilis' defeat and implications for the entire species would be so grievous to one so proud as to cause him to make a mistake.

But, it had not yet been so.

Izakkus and his men had functional control of the legion but so long as 'Berovai was in control of _Vengeant Shepherd_ the ships would be going nowhere. It was beautiful, how much control the Legion Master retained; magnificent really. The fighting ships could not be turned against one another except on the flagship's command and _Vengeant Shepherd_ retained all directive codes for ship movement and slipstream drive activation. It was infuriating.

It was an impasse but Izakkus was determined to have his legion, even if it cost him every last one of his own men. He would have revenge and he would give 'Berovai to the Hierarchs, not in chains but in pieces.

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etinne**

The thing that became most apparent was that survival depended upon being useful, or desirable in some way. Even then, there was no expectation or promise. Usefulness could easily be translated into one's ability to be food. Lucinda, with only the sight of one eye, found herself often wishing she could see nothing at all.

Members of the dominant species wished her to live and, truthfully, she had not yet resigned herself to death. After unknown days, when time seemed not to have meaning, she still had hope and quickly came to understand there was something basically pleasing about her from their perspective. Their fondling of her long, dark hair was repulsive; they smelled and she wanted to vomit when they were near; it hurt to move and she couldn't think beyond surviving that same day…and she dared not wonder why she was determined to.

There were those who were cared for, fed, their wounds tended to, provided meager means and opportunity to bathe, were clothed; the useful and/or _entertaining_ ones. Even in captivity there was a caste system. Lucinda fought guilt over being in the supposedly more fortunate group; guilt because so many others were killed or allowed to die in agony of their wounds; guilt because her own people saw her and the others like her as traitors…as if having the means which insured her survival were a sin, as if escaping one set of atrocities made the others forced on her somehow less. Those with voice would lash out with words that added to her humiliation. She found that even condemned people damned their own.

And while she lived in this somehow enviable position, those unable, unwilling, or unwanted to subjugate themselves were killed and eaten, their carcasses discarded like garbage. Men, women, children; this enemy had no consideration for any. The Brutes would have them trussed up and cleaned like game, some of them not dead when the process began. These big, furry aliens had a preference for meat, and torture, and were horrifically sexual creatures. As days stretched on there were so many awful images filling Lucinda's head she had only differing sets of horror to retreat to inside her mind when the Brutes decided it was time to physically enjoy her.

For all the ways in which she had been prepared to be a fighter and possibly captured there would have been nothing to prepare her for the barbarism of these captors; nothing to prepare her for the hatred of her own kind because she wanted to hold on to what was left of her life, hatred because she wouldn't just lay down and die. She learned not to think about it, to recede into herself, to carve out chunks of meat and serve her captors without acknowledging what was being done: what was on those platters; to not feel and acknowledge when they touched her. It didn't matter if she cried or screamed or fought. The only thing she could hope for was to block it out so that should she escape she would not have to remember everything.

Then, it had begun. Many of the Brutes were taken up, apparently called back to their ship. Numbers dwindled while those left seemed enraged. Human slaves and subordinate species began breaking down most of the horror camps under watchful eyes and leaving the city while some defiantly stayed behind. Lucinda found herself chained to the other girls and walking while armed aliens secured their exit with what armament and vehicles they could secure. They had ended up what felt miles from the city after days and, without leadership to reign in the lust for killing and torture, the horrors resumed in earnest.

* * *

_**Legion of Recompense**_**; Flagship **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Sicera sat in the Shipmaster's chair, turned so that he could keep his eyes fixed on the command center doors. The room reeked of blood and an electrical burning that had lingered for days. Though the bodies of the fallen had been removed, the odor of death seeped up from lines in the floor panels where fluids had soaked through and putrefaction began to take hold in unseen places. The Legion Master was alone if only in his thoughts.

Four warriors had survived the forced taking and tossed the dead traitors out into the hall with their ilk before assisting 'Berovai in what remained to be done. Izakkus had yet to lay siege to the bridge, but the Legion Master knew it was coming. He would be ready.

Communications had been spotty at best, but the shipside Sangheili had maintained their private channels for a fair amount of time: long enough for Sicera to warn them; long enough to lay out strategic traps and keep the Jiralhanae held off; long enough to make sure Izakkus would never have this ship. Silence had finally overtaken the comms and the Legion Master knew it was all but over. It could take days yet, but very soon all that he was and would have been would come to an end.

'Berovai heaved a sigh and bowed his head. It was not honorable to be taken prisoner, let alone to _allow _one's self to be taken prisoner, but this was _his _ship. It bore the name of his choosing, and the only way in which he could rightly avenge those who had fallen was to make Izakkus believe his victory was complete: to make him drunkenly dumb with hollow triumph. Sicera could not bring himself to destroy the vessel, nor did he have it in him to leave or glass his own men. It had to be this way.

The four remaining Special Operations Sangheili were sitting idle at terminals, equally resolved to their fate, preparing to leave him to join their brothers. He would give them the opportunity to die with honor, what would be left afterward was his alone to bear.

The Unggoy Deacon and Sicera's personal slave were huddled together beneath a console looking terrified and exhausted. Not long after claim had been laid to the bridge the two had shimmied down from a Huragok maintenance shaft. They had been most loyal during these difficult times, going out and espying the location of the enemy, helping the soldiers to know which areas of the ship were taken and which were open, and carrying out sabotage which could not be insured from the command center.

From the corner of his eye, 'Berovai saw the boy shift and bury his face against his Unggoy companion, quietly sobbing. In that moment, something like pity streaked across the Legion Master's conscience. He and his men were well prepared for whatever would happen once the Jiralhanae got hold of them but the slave; the boy would be set upon and completely rent, likely to death. He was as scared as a virgin female for much the same reasons.

Sicera drew his face into a sneer. It would not do to have such a thing befall one of his own kind, not to one so loyal…even a slave. The merciful thing would be to kill the boy before the beasts could have at him; but the men of Berov were no more disposed to acts of mercy that they were prone to notions of sympathy. He could use this to some advantage, even if not his own, and not be left facing complete personal dishonor for being merciful.

The Legion Master stood and retrieved the bulbous conical of an active camouflage device from a pocket. "Come here, _boy_," he snarled.

The slave sniffed, collecting his feet and doing as he was told. When he stood looking up at his master, 'Berovai held the instrument aloft and indicated for him to take it.

As he reached for it, Sicera barked, "Deacon."

When the holy man approached the Legion Master addressed them both, "You will go straight to the escape pods," he hissed, "As soon as you are on the ground make for the west, where the suns will touch the horizon," he retrieved a mapping transmitter and handed it to the Unggoy, "This can help. Find my men and get far away from this ship. Do you understand?"

The slave looked at him with huge yellow eyes, his face stained with tears and fading bruises while the Deacon just stared. Then, they both nodded ever so slightly.

"_Speak!" _Sicera snarled.

The boy flinched, and the holy man hooted, "Yes."

"Good," The Legion Master said, reaching to clasp the boy's shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. Though the slave steeled himself well against recoiling from the much larger man's touch, the tremor which shook him gave away fear. Sicera cursed. The boy did not understand and was likely too tired and stupid with fright to appreciate any intended meaning. 'Berovai had only himself to blame for that, but the fear he worked so hard to instill and had once taken pleasure in eliciting now clawed at him.

He grabbed the boy roughly and sent him stumbling toward a vent opening with a squeal. The Deacon crawled in first and the boy looked back, clearly frightened and unsure. This was cruel in its own way, but it had to be done. If there was any chance they could give assistance to his surviving soldiers he would take it. Even so, in his state of resolve, genuine compassion slithered through Sicera's perception again. He sighed heavily and the slave sniffed back tears. After all his master had done to him, he looked reluctant to go and what was left of 'Berovai's disgust for the creature he had spent thirty-odd years torturing cut loose. He could not make this any different; there was no time left to find some capacity for regret; and there was only one thing out of all the many he had taken away from this creature which he could ever give back. That was fitting, as it was something Sicera was going to give up any right to for himself.

"Boy," he rumbled softly, pausing when the slave turned to him, "Your mother had named you Naaco."

* * *

**New Saint Etienne**

Torsch did not know what to make of this. Amy seemed to be freezing one moment then burning up the next; mumbling incoherently. Sangheili did not have these types of illnesses. Amy was injured, that much he had smelled and seen for himself, and it had somehow lead to whatever this was. And _this _was…awful.

He had been sitting in the cloak active camouflage when she had stormed into the room shaking violently. She had pulled a candle from a pant pocket and lit it with a small fire starting device then stood watching herself in a mirror. She had tried to steady herself against the dresser top but seemed to give up in favor of removing her armor. 'Koridee had been a bit surprised at how small she really was without it, then she began removing even more clothing and the Sangheili lifted himself silently from the floor intending to slip away; not comfortable being there and realizing she had no idea she was being watched. He was angry but he was _not_ a pervert.

She was consuming an amber colored alcohol when he paused at the door. From the corner of his eye he saw her pour the drink across her side and ineffectively contain a whimper. Curious, Torsch looked back as she unbound her middle with a gasp of pain then listed heavily to one side before crumpling to the floor.

He was of the mind to turn and leave her like that but he could not force himself to do it, he could not stifle worrisome instinct. Cursing himself under his breath, 'Koridee had stepped to the bedside to see her lying on a heap, clothing peeled away to reveal a mass of singed flesh.

It made him wonder how humans managed to maintain their status as prevailing species on any planet with such delicate skin. Spanning her side in a mark the size of his outstretched hand, across lower ribs to the waist of her pants, an outer dermal layer had collected in channels of gray and white against raw, inflamed tissue. Blisters strained against collected yellow fluid or had ruptured to leak down her flesh. Being familiar with this kind of injury, he had done what he knew how.

That had been days ago and he could not bring himself to leave the sight out of morbid curiosity and self-punishment.

"The Jiralhanae have been gone for hours, Major," Kote 'Hakkamree stood in the doorway and broke Torsch from his thoughts, "It seems most of those left behind have abandoned the military instillation and left the city entirely. There is an abundance of movement. Many of our own still appear to be…"

Torsch interrupted him with a dismissive _hum_ in response, not really processing the other man's report. 'Koridee's mind was elsewhere.

Amy was wounded, and in a fundamental way which had nothing to do with the burn she had sustained and subsequent infection. It explained so many things yet muddied the already clouded and confused pieces of his reason. Humans were a plague, a galactic infestation. They were overgrown parasites who were incapable of understanding their own destructive presence. That was what he had always believed. Any sense of bravery or logic or honor form their actions was an aberration. That they were capable of technology was simply a fluke, an accident or that stolen from other species, stolen from the gods. They were pests. They did not have _feelings._ They took and used and destroyed…that was what he had always been taught. They were unclean, unfit for the Great Journey.

Still, what he had witnessed and heard in the past few days was enough to chew at his sense of basic respect and leave him uncomfortable with the assessment that humans were just as capable of feeling as his own kind…and their females were just as capable of being emotionally damaged and lashing out in one of the only ways he was painfully aware Sangheili women could.

Though Amy's crude words had stung more than she could possibly have known, and Torsch desperately wanted _not _to think it possible, he slowly came to accept that she was just a female who had been severely hurt beyond current physical injuries. It was a thing he did not want to understand, a thing he had strategically avoided most of his life, the only reason he was actually thankful women had little interest in him. It meant he would never have to face the helplessness of a crying wife who had been taken lawfully against her will by a Swordsman.

He had dealt with all the wrath and heartache of physically wronged women he cared to. He had done his duty to his bloodline and endured courteous courtships and the whole complicated charade that was procuring a mate for a common man. In his experience women were only of two kinds: those who had been unharmed and were dismissive of all but physical perfection in a mate or those who had suffered at the hands and in the beds of Swordsmen and became temperamentally volatile and generally hateful and crass.

Given Amy's distasteful manner, Torsch had judged her one of the latter of her own species and what he had expected was an eventual fiery display of female rage intended to cut back at him deeply, most likely in the presence of his file. Women, after all, had a thing for the public humiliation of common men who dared to degrade them or give them threatening looks, and he had done both. What he had not been prepared for was what had actually happened. She had indeed turned his words against him, but not in a way for which anything could have made him ready.

In her delirium, Amy had said many things, but what had made his hearts stop and almost caused him to become physically ill was when she had grabbed onto Grand-mama Larouche's hands and bawled, begging not to be taken somewhere and forced to do something. She had turned and looked right at him, no, directly through him and wept miserably, "_I'm not a dog._"

The old human woman had glared at him and embarrassment and confusion had collided with the anger and distress he was already struggling to keep hold of. He truly did not know what to do or think, could not trust his own judgment. _She was just a human. _Her imprudent and uncouth commentary was disturbing. Annoyance and venom had seemed an appropriate response in light of the base reaction she caused in him and being angry was much easier than thinking he was completely losing his mind. But…but now…he had to face that he let himself become something he never intended. It was not like him to be cruel to women even in return for their ire. That was a noble's game to play. And even at her age, oh hells, even at _his _age, his mother would beat the scales off of him if she knew he had deliberately degraded a woman or gave her an ugly leer. It was undignified.

"Kote," 'Koridee said, shifting and pulling his active camouflage device from a pocket before tossing it to his second-in-command, "Take Eeth and the human male. We cannot continue hiding here doing nothing, but we move only when it is certain there is a safe place to receive her."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

**New Saint Etienne/Fort Champlain **

A constant, rhythmic beeping intruded into the black void. Amy could smell various antiseptics and tasted the rubbery flavor it left on the back of her tongue. "No," she croaked weakly, her brain clinging to bits of a nightmare as delirium refused to fully yield to wakefulness.

They had taken her somewhere, she could hear people talking, she couldn't stop them…No, she wasn't a child anymore, they couldn't do this…

Someone shushed into her ear and a hand petted her arm.

_A nurse in rumpled green scrubs with a mask dangling from one ear, hair net canted and blonde curls askew, glared down at her. She kicked and thrashed and clawed at the woman's face before a hammy hand grabbed her arm from behind and jerked her roughly back down. With lines of scratches across her brow, the nurse reared back and slapped a thirteen-year-old Amy hard enough across the cheek to rattle her teeth and screamed, "You little bitch!" Amy felt her arms and legs pulled at painful angles as her wrists and ankles were bound tight to the rails of an antiquated gurney, "Stop your crying and behave." _

Amy opened an eye and saw a blurry figure tending the shape of an IV stand, "Don't," she pleaded.

_She was in her mother's car, in the backseat bundled in a blanket and feeling hollow, drugged, and in more pain than a child's mind could imagine as ever possible. Todd was driving and she could see her mother's fingers twined in his as they held hands on the center armrest, "You did the right thing," he said, the memory of his voice slicing through her like a blistering, cold knife. _

"Why is she not getting better?" the voice came from outside her head this time and Amy knew she knew it, but her mind couldn't work out how or who it belonged to. There was an odd memory of piercing green eyes and opalescent freckles against bronze skin before a gray haze closed back in.

"_She's getting worse. I have to take her to the emergency room." _

"_And tell them what, Shelly?"_

_Amy was in her bedroom, tucked in her princess bed with the pink ruffle and childish decor that was all too young for her. She could hear her mom and step-dad talking. It was summer. She remembered because school was out and she missed being able to get away._

_Todd's voice made her skin break out in gooseflesh, "They said she'd be a little sick."_

"_Her fever is out of control, I have to take her…"_

"_AND TELL THEM __**WHAT**__?" Todd demanded._

"She is getting better," Amy wasn't sure she knew that voice at all, "It's just an altered state of consciousness. Sometimes she's with us and sometimes she isn't, but mostly it's a patchy place in between…She messed up her brain chemistry…We've got fluids and nutrients going…She'll be okay, just give it time…Major 'Korid."

'_Korid…_

'_Koridee…_

"_Even dogs have the sense to clean their wounds...If you were a dog I'd have you put down…how could you let this happen?…she seduced me, the little whore…it's a place in Guinn, no one has to know…you whelp your young like dogs…it will be like it never happened…"_

Amy sucked in a breath and forced her eyes open, looking up at rectangular, industrial acoustic tiles. They were a muted shade of blue-gray in the failing light and flecked with oblong black marks. She gasped for air like a woman afraid of drowning. Penny Larouche's kind, pudgy face intruded into her field of vision for a brief second before blackness swallowed everything back up.

_Mom was struggling to carry her down the stairs, and crying. Mom had a black eye. Todd was gone. At the curb there was a dirty sedan in a painful shade of yellow with black checkers on the doors and hood. It smelled like fish and dirty laundry inside. They had to stop twice so she could throw up. _

_She woke and saw a sweetly smiling black woman in a pretty blue pant-suit at the bedside. Her hair was in a fluffy bob and she was talking to a tall, thin doctor, a _real _doctor, with spiky red hair. _

"_We've contacted her grandparents on Earth, if she discharges before then she'll stay in a nice, safe home until they can get here…I see someone's trying to wake up…Amy, can you hear me?" _

"Amy? Amy…"

"_We're pursuing charges against both of them."_

"Amy," a bright penlight shown in her eyes as someone forced open her lids one at a time, "Sergeant Starr," the light intruded again before there was nothingness.

The blank gulf slid away and Amy opened her eyes with little resistance from her body, finding herself looking up at those rectangular tiles. She could hear thunder rolling off in some unknown distance and feel the stickiness of sweat clinging to her skin all over. As her senses collected, Amy could feel a soft breeze and the muggy heat and bland cleanness that always followed a summer storm. That antiseptic smell was real, and so was that awful taste in her mouth, and that beeping sound…and the IV line taped to her left wrist. She was only aware of the passage of time because Penny wasn't there as she had remembered and it was darker, shadows were longer against the walls than before…whenever _before _had been.

A pounding headache seemed to well up from nowhere and Amy groaned, reaching to touch her forehead. Everything hurt; every joint and every muscle screamed at the thought of movement. Her limbs were heavy and her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She didn't know where she was and she sure had no idea how she had gotten there. The last meaningful thing she could drag to her mind was wishing she had told that Elite son-of-a-bitch to go straight to hell.

She slowly sat up, body objecting, and froze with a start at the sight of Stealth Major 'Koridee standing before an open window, helmetless, arms folded as he stared out. For some reason it was freakishly comforting, as if her mind had simply conjured him there.

"Um," Amy managed in a croak, drawing his attention.

He turned and blinked at her, an oddly relieved expression twisting his face.

Amy slid her legs from the bed, unaware of her current state of dress, or significant lack thereof, as a wave of nausea well up dangerously.

For a moment, Torsch stood there watching her carefully stretching from the bedside. His eyes slid down her body, across her completely bare legs to her strange-looking human feet and tiny human toes.

Amy looked up as the Elite's eyes jerked to hers before he snapped back to the window. He scratched at his cheek as purple flooded his face and damn near completely engulfed his head. All of those little iridescent scales blanched against his skin "I do not believe you are well enough to…" he began in a cautious rumble.

"I'm good," Starr insisted, "I've got this," she said, needing to reassert herself into the world of consciousness as a grown woman, not helpless like a defenseless _child_. She needed to shake off all of that. But, even as a familiar sense of hardened conviction clamped down on her, Amy felt a tinge of uncertainty, as if her body wasn't convinced by her words because her mind was still shaking with vivid memories.

Her bare feet touched the floor and, as Torsch expected, the moment she tried to stand her knees went wobbly and her legs caved.

_Stubborn female._

Starr doubled over and stumbled with a sharp curse as her arms flailed and lines were jerked painfully from her wrist. The IV stand was sent toppling across the bed.

'Korid twisted and grabbed her before she could fall, easily swinging her up into his arms and still managing to snatch the stand up before it could fall to the floor. He stepped to put her back on the thin mattress as he moved the stand out of the way. Holding her carefully, he set her on the bed. As he laxed his grasp on her and she slid through his embrace, Torsch could feel the curves of her slim body beneath the thin garments which barely covered her and left her creamy legs completely exposed. She was warm and soft, and so close her scent filled his nostrils. She smelled of something medicinal and dirt and sweat and ash and _woman_.

A cold spike shot through his chest and Torsch felt the rate of his hearts increase in absolute panic as a base desire grabbed hold of him. It was dizzying. 'Korid did _not _feel such things, ever. Desire. No. Absolutely _not_. He was a man in rigid control of himself. He was _not _susceptible to physically weak and inferior minded ridiculousness no matter how tired he was after the last ten days, no matter how seeing her fluctuate from reality to unconsciousness and everything in-between had cut at him, no matter how emotionally drained or spiritually crushed or physically wrung out or sexually frustrated he was.

For a moment, he was afraid to move.

_What in nine hells…oh, gods, was he trying to _justify_ this? _

Torsch was fairly certain he had just completely lost what was left of his mind.

When he moved to pull away, Amy held onto him long enough for awkwardness to sneak in. She couldn't help it. Emotional exhaustion played across a memory fogged with past emptiness and pain. He was still leaned over her and her cheek was pressed into the soft, warm skin of his bare neck. She could feel his arm secured along her shoulder and down her back as he slowly relaxed. She became aware of the solid structure of his hips against the edge of the mattress between her knees. It didn't seem to matter that she was dressed in little more than singed underclothes or that he was a big, alien ass-hat. In that moment, a need for comfort Starr had deliberately neglected for most of her life suddenly lashed out and demanded attention. A large, strong hand dropped down the swell of her shoulder, followed the curve of her waist, and Amy felt the palm of 'Koridee's hand run the length of her bare thigh from her hip to her knee.

It felt like all of the air was sucked out of her lungs as Amy looked up into his face and saw the same confused intensity she felt rolling around inside as it was reflected in those beautiful eyes. He didn't try to pull away and each moment she was reminded of how good it could feel to let a man be that close to her.

_Wait…where did __**that **__come from?_

Caught off guard by the unexpected pain of a deep, personal insecurity, Starr leaned back and braced a hand against the plate on his massive chest. 'Koridee dutifully stepped away, never breaking eye contact, looking back at her with both apology and…something that kind of looked like longing.

_What?!_

He was a world-class disk-head; and an _alien _for Christ's sake!

Unable to deny that there was an odd electricity now charging the air, or that she could still feel the after effects of his touch prickling against her skin, Amy tried to come up with something snarky to say to reassert some distance and put things back in proper perspective but…but…

_Oh, God._

The warmth of a blush washed across her cheeks and Amy rubbed her hands across her face in irritation.

"How, um," she stumbled over the words, mumbling through her hands, "How long have I been out?"

He was looking at his fingers, picking at his dull, claw-like nails; mandibles on one side of his face twitching nervously for a few beats before he folded his arms and turned back to the window, "Ten days," he sighed softly.

She stared at him, not daring to acknowledge the weariness she heard in his voice. No, she couldn't do that; she needed to find some distance. She couldn't let herself think he was capable of being concerned. Distance was _safe_. "Ten _days_," she managed to squeak, "Where…how…" she stuttered, words and emotions clogging in her head and throat as she tried to piece together what she had missed. She was half-naked and in a strange place and her brain wasn't working right. Tears sprang to her eyes in frustration and embarrassment and Amy dug the heels of her hands into her face to try to make it stop.

"I should leave," Torsch said, turning toward the door, feeling very uncomfortable with this emotional display.

"Wait," Amy called back reflexively, her mind reeling with a surge of fear at the idea of being left alone.

He paused, tipping his face in question, uncertain if she meant it and deciding if he would relent. She was looking back at him, tucking her legs beneath the thin sheet.

"I will go get Penny," he rumbled in quiet reassurance.

"Where are we?" she continued, still not willing to let him go, not sure why, and getting irritated with herself for it.

He turned back to her hesitantly, "On your military installation..." he said, his words trailing off as his throat went dry.

She had found the bandage on her side and sat lifting her shirt giving an exhibitive view of her naked abdomen as she inspected it. Torsch felt his guts flop. Her face lifted to his and his eyes jolted to meet hers.

The bandage was dark gray-ish and Amy thought it was weird looking. It felt leathery and tough, but was squishy and yielded to her touch like a gel covering. Not anything she was aware of the UNSC using.

"What is this?"

"It is there to eliminate infection," the Elite said through gritted teeth, the tendons in his neck flexing, "to keep the injury clean and manage the pain until your body can regenerate its own covering."

"_You_ did this?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.

He was not sure what was in her voice, if she was setting him up for some kind of attack or trying to convey surprise, or both, but every abiding instinct told him this was an accusation and he was in danger. He gave a single nod.

"Why would you do that, 'Koridee?"

"'_Korid_," he barked, more defensively than he had intended, "I have no remaining allegiance to the Covenant," he snarled, "And it was done because you were not in a state to see to the injury, _so I did_."

It was not his intention to let his spiritual hurt carry over into his explanation, but it did and he had no way of taking it back. He felt lost and angry. She had inadvertently reminded him that the Prophets had called for the extermination of his people. He had wanted to go on believing the Jiralhanae were simply traitors. But, there had been too many parallel accounts from loyalist Unggoy and Kig-Yar; and he had heard the order himself from a recording saved in the helm of a dead Jiralhanae. He had believed it was the Brutes who had staged an uprising, but it was the Covenant who had betrayed the Sangheili. The very idea made his blood boil. Everything he had believed his whole life was a lie. His gods were dead if they ever existed in the first place.

A tiny smile curled one side of her mouth. She had heard the venom in his voice. Good, because anger gave her something to latch onto, something to use. Anger was _safe. _

_So why didn't she just let him leave?_

"Still no first name, _'Korid_?" she said caustically against self-disgust at the reminder of personal neediness.

His mandibles twitched. Torsch could hear in her voice she was arming herself for a verbal fight. "No," he managed in a low hiss, taking a step back. Even having been with her kind for this length of time he would not, could not, let himself get comfortable with the idea. There were bounds of basic regard humans seemed to have no appreciation for and he was not going to allow himself to be degraded as he felt many of his fellows had. Not when he had already lost so much of his own identity. She was managing quite well enough with his clan name alone and the margins were skewed as it was and…

The expression on her face widened as he stood there thinking and it occurred to him that this was about to go off in a highly inappropriate direction.

"You know," Amy mused, "if you wanted to see me in my underwear, you could have just asked. You didn't have to wait until I was unconscious."

The color drained from his face and the little freckles stood out like darkened silvery dots, "I-I would not," he stammered before blurting in a rush, "I would not dishonor you that way, woman!"

She raised a brow, forcing herself to be satisfied with his reaction though a part of her felt all wrong, "Uh-huh," she grunted, "I thought you said you wouldn't touch me because it would dishonor _you_, _'Korid_?"

He swallowed hard and took another step away, completely unsettled at having been drawn so easily into this provocative quarrel, "I-you…" He wanted to be anywhere but there at that moment because he really wanted to reach out and throttle her. Torsch knew he deserved at least some of her ire. _More _than some of it, judging from her incoherent ramblings. But, he was tired and now she was just being an ill-natured female at him for _no appropriate reason _and his mind was untrustworthy, and he was becoming inanely distracted with…with…something he did not wish to dignify with a label.

She was deliberately trying to provoke him and he knew that was the point of this female sport, but he did not know how to play this disgusting game, and he was not in the mood for a tutorial from a _human_. It was revolting, a lewd sparring match with the specific intention of riling a man enough so that his dignity would eventually snap. The end was to get a noble so angry he would take her quickly and just _get it over with_. Torsch had never been particularly versed in the finer points of courtship, and he was definitely _not _a Swordsman, nor a sadist, and there was no way she could really want to...and...and…

His temper flared, "It is not something I would expect _you _to understand, _human_."

She narrowed her eyes._ Good, be angry, because anger creates distance and distance is _safe, "Is that because I'm dumber than a dog or because I'm a woman?"

_Oh, hells, _'Korid thought as he snarled and took a threatening step toward her.

Just one step: that was all he dared.

The only reason this was causing him _any_ discomfort was for the same reason his sense of common decency was out of balance. His existence had been upended and he had clearly mistaken the past ten days as an indication she was capable of _feelings_ and somehow let his guard down, "Stop this female lasciviousness," he growled.

Amy glared at him, "Female…_what?_" she seethed, "Oh, you'd really like that, wouldn't you?"

Torsch snorted, "You are repugnant."

"And, you're a jack-ass!"

"Well," Penny's voice intruded into the argument with a chirp as she waddled into the room to plant herself between them, hands on her hips, "I see you two have picked up right about where you left off."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

**Fort Champlain **

Refugees came in from all over the surrounding city and county regions, some came in from neighboring North Etienne and Cean to establish direct communication with surviving groups. A system of trade emerged in usable scavenged goods and food, and those with useful skills set to work trying to make some sense from the madness. Fairfield Army Hospital, or what was left of it, and the surrounding grounds had become a central location for survivors. Just to the east of the main building a line of several hundred billets had been revitalized as livable quarters. The buildings were left-over from when the installation had been under construction and later relegated to storage. They were once again serving their original purpose to capacity while patches of ground in the outlying training and parade fields looked like campsites gone awry. The outdoors department of the exchange had been raided, along with supply facilities. Even connexes were being used as shelter. Anything that could be inhabited now was as the need arose.

The amount of wounded was less than Amy had expected and the hospital was less medical facility and more temporary housing and screening camp for incoming groups. Then again, with medicine having been knocked back a few hundred centuries with the loss of power, data, and equipment, those grievously injured succumbed to their injuries quickly and in numbers. This was also complicated by the issue of locating enough clean water. Reports from incoming groups indicated the Alsace Dam had been compromised and a quarter of North and New Saint Etienne were flooded.

There were the issues of non-functioning or contaminated water systems and overloaded and flooded sewage systems. Outbreaks of general illness associated with unsanitary conditions went from historical theory to reality while the surviving populous faced dealing with mass casualties, scavenging animals and insects doing their part to spread misery and sickness, locating sufficient food and necessities, and standard end-of-the-world mayhem.

The Sangheili turned out to be pretty damn good at being an organized police and security force and seemed happy to have a job which involved the distinct opportunity to kill again. Brutes left in the area were put down and roving bands of the human criminal element who took the state of governmental collapse as a reason to commit atrocities really had no chance. The Elites were disturbingly good hunters and genuinely enjoyed what they did. They managed to keep the riff-raff in check: there wasn't a surviving thug or gang with delusions of being bad-ass enough to take on pissed off Sangheili with sanction from the emerging, make-shift civilization to do as they saw fit with enterprising or opportunistic delinquents and hooligans.

Everyone who wanted to stay or come on the installation had a part to do. There were people helping shuffle supplies around, areas designated for cooking and cleaning, the smell of various soups and rations, lines of laundry flapping in the breeze, and humans and Elites in clusters working on weapons. There were also groups of kids kicking a soccer ball around or playing made up games in the tree lines. Their intermittent laughter was a sound which had never seemed more sacred.

It took Amy the better part of two days to get back on her feet. Even with a fresh uniform rounded up from who-knew-where and after managing to keep down a few portions of soup, courtesy of Grand-mama Larouche, she was unsteady on her feet and succumbed to bouts of complete exhaustion. Penny scuttled about doing minor things to help the sparse nursing staff, but mostly she was relegated to the equivalent of bed-rest at Doctor Guthrie's perpetual insistence. She had mostly kept Amy company in her waking hours and had done her best to fill in the ten day gap in the other woman's memory.

That had been a giant kick in the teeth. It turned out, the reason they were there and not still holed up in a row house in hell was because Stealth Major 'Korid had sent a couple of his men out with Cory Trice with the specific instructions to find humans who could help her and to make sure it was safe. Then, he had carried her here and questioned everything they did to help her and took turns with Penny, Kote and Grand-mama Larouche watching over her. And, that pile of blankets on the floor next to her bed was where he had slept, when he had slept, you know, in between kicking ass and doing his part to make sure this place stayed safe and watching her sleep. But, after she had come-to and Penny had gotten in between them and shooed him off, 'Korid had never come back.

Penny preferred one of the small fold-out couches and Grand-mama Larouche slept in the room's other bed. Kote 'Hakkamr would come in for a few hours during the day to snore his Elite ass off on the floor before leaving again, but when she laid down, Amy found herself playing what she knew and remembered over and over in her head. For some reason, she kept analyzing the final exchange between herself and 'Korid and questioning her reactions and his.

There was the fact he had seemed disgusted, or even _embarrassed_, that she was a woman. As soon as she had found out she could make him squirm it had seemed like an appropriate form of revenge for his unpleasant disposition. It was fun to watch him get flustered: it had seemed like a good way to amuse herself in this hell-hole. After all, he _was_ a jack-ass: a condescending, grumpy, overly-male man. But, even if he really _believed _the ugly things he had said, his actions afterward said there was more going on in his head than pure hatred. Amy found herself alternating from feeling somehow vindicated, to angry, to overwhelmingly sad, to feeling like a dick…and looking at the neatly folded pallet on the floor next to her bed and, against her best efforts, wondering where he was.

The third morning, Starr decided she felt well enough to risk going out and finding the ranking UNSC Army survivor, which turned out to be a Lieutenant Colonel Dover. They discussed the water system and Amy went over the locations of the installation's six man-made, underground, sealed back-up reservoirs. Even if only one of them had been spared, that would give them enough clean water to make a go at locating and unlocking any uncompromised pipelines running up-river from the contaminated region and setting them up to feed and refill the back-up reservoirs. Dover had insisted Amy get with the other remaining engineers but sit out any missions. He favored keeping a brain with usable knowledge on such things safely inside the installation. The pipeline locks were based on basic mechanics, no electronics, and her presence would not be required to turn a wrench. Starr found herself glad the whole system had not been updated on the UEG's timetable after all.

The rest of the day had been spent with the remaining Corps of Engineers soldiers discussing the general state of things. Fort Champlain was mostly UNSC and Elites with a heavy scattering of civilians. Few of those civilians openly admitted having been rebels but Amy knew that only meant there were a good number of people who were simply smart enough to keep their mouths shut. There were rumors a few in-coming groups had reported seeing Brutes in what was once New Saint Etienne's upper-crust district. They were sketchy on details, probably not wanting to out themselves as thieves. It was amazing what people would steal when law failed, and no one really wanted to admit being untrustworthy in a community which had no problem with executing people who were self-motivated to hurt and maybe even kill others for meaningless crap.

The building which once housed Amy's office with the Water Purification, Treatment and Resource Management Division no longer existed. It was apparently now a crater and gone with it were all of the supplies which would have made her new-found position much easier. The distinction between potable and non-potable resources was really down to nothing more than hopes and prayers and buckets on roofs and rain dances.

Day dropped off to late afternoon and Amy made her way back to the hospital feeling like she had run a marathon. When she climbed the stairs and stepped to the door of the shared room, Penny was sitting on the edge of Grand-mama's bed with her legs dangling off the side and her hands propped behind her. The pregnant woman was making faces and muttering as Stealth Major Kote 'Hakkamr stood with a large, dark hand across the apex of her stomach, a big, goofy grin on his face.

"I swear, they started moving and now I think they've decided to have a boxing match in there," Penny said, reaching to press a hand to her gut.

Kote let his hand travel across her abdomen then said softly, "In my culture, it is a good omen for a woman to feel her children move. It is an indication they will be exceptionally strong."

"Well, that's good," Penny said with amused sarcasm, "but can they give my kidneys a break in the mean time?"

Amy leaned against the door casing and smiled at the sight. Most of 'Hakkamr's armor was still in a neat stack on the floor. He stood with one arm out of his bodysuit as if he had been interrupted in dressing. Easily pushing eight and half feet tall, Kote was big. He was dark like oiled mahogany with scars crisscrossing exposed skin stretched over thick muscle. His muddy green, reptilian eyes that caught light when his face was in the shadows of the drawing evening like a predator. He was just a terrifying example of an Elite in general; with the exception of the look on his face at that moment.

Kote leaned down and brushed his mandibles along Larouche's cheek, whispering something inaudible but clearly dark and suggestive, which made Penny giggle like a girl.

_Well,_ Starr thought,_ alright then. _

Penny narrowed her eyes and scrunched up her face playfully but looked up as Amy walked into the room clearing her throat loudly. Kote visibly startled and dipped his face to Amy as she passed, "Apologies," he rumbled, quickly slipping his arm into his bodysuit as if he thought she would somehow be offended by the sight of his naked _arm_, "I was not aware…"

"It's okay," Amy laughed dismissively as she crawled across her bed, boots and all, and sighed wearily.

Kote watched her amused smile for a moment. His pupils constricted and his lips crinkled across his upper mandibles ever so slightly. It was surprising how expressive their faces could be and at that moment, his expression seemed to say he had taken affront to something. Without comment, 'Hakkamr turned to Penny and they shared a quiet exchange in French before he finished donning his armor and left.

* * *

_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

Outside the forward viewscreen the suns were setting. Their combined orbs of orange and red seemed to set the ground afire with yellows and pinks. Distinct lines of atmospheric elevation caught the light in a rainbow of blues and purples and grays. A few clouds dotted the far horizon in shades of yellow and gold. Slivers of copper gave away trails of rivers caught in the brilliance as the terminal line of darkness draped across the planet. Streams of smoke trailed up and drifted in smudges that caught sunlight in sparks of silver. Though certainly a greater panorama,and only a metaphoric burning, Sicera wondered if this was close to what his ancient predecessor had seen before submitting himself to the death he likewise deserved.

The Legion Master grunted and nodded to himself; _yes, it assuredly was, _though, Sicera would not die at the hands of a beautiful woman, or even those of one he had in blind egoism thoroughly wronged. There were was a certain degree of sorrow in that, and not only for the shame it caused. 'Berovai was left to acknowledge that there was no one he could honestly have claimed he cared enough for to allow it, or even have made it a possibility.

He had been just one of many sons born to his mother, and the man he suspected as his father had sired hundreds. Guilty of the same, Sicera had more children than he could possibly know even if it were legally permitted. He had a harem full of women and a Mistress who was perpetually pregnant with the child of one visiting noble or another. It had been a life of empire rebuilding, when service permitted.

A lineage did not rise from disgrace by any other means than sheer force of will and it was expected each succeeding kaidon of Berov would, quite literally, breed his own army. Having been selected and confirmed representative of his bloodline, Sicera had taken every measure to ensure the lineage increased and did so with distance from ancestral discredit. Affection was imprudent and not a notion known to him.

There was a deep stain on the clan; history which survived if for no other reasons than to insure the sons of Berov took no action based on emotion. Odura and Herra 'Berovai were known for the greatest of prominence and the lowest of falls. Their infamy had survived the ages and spread across the planet and colonies as exemplifying the worst Sangheili were capable of.

A man charged with overseeing the largest territory under single rule Sanghelos had ever seen was brought down by a woman. The Kaidon Odura allowed his love for a murderess to cloud his judgment. Mercy shown toward a common whore had undone countless generations of eminence, and insured that no such idea would ever again be considered honorable in Berov.

The Mistress Herra used her beauty to manipulate a man into bestowing on her the highest honor awarded to her gender in recorded history. She stood as the only female ever officially recognized by a council as a Swordsman. Lovely beyond measure and deadly beyond calculation, Herra was said to have brought rival empires to their knees in more than one way.

Sicera sighed heavily and reached to scratch his chin, _Thus are the things left to live beyond the grave. _

A regular thumping and shuffling brought him back to the present situation, giving away efforts from without to breach the command center door locks.

Poor Izakkus. What must he have done after he and his men fought tooth and nail for days only to find the doors sealed and the Huragok all dead and unable to serve him?

Sicera clicked his mandibles and turned from the viewscreen as sparks began sputtering through the tight seam of the main portal. The Legion Master reached and unclasped the fasteners which held his cloak in place and slid the heavy, emerald fur from his shoulders, neatly draping it across a console. At the door, the stream of sparks widened and a cascade erupted in glittering shades of orange and pink which bounced along the threshold before burning out.

With deliberate movements, 'Berovai drew his sword hilts and set them aside before deactivating and unhooking armor plates, letting them fall loudly to the deck. Stepping from his boots, Sicera pulled the zip across his chest and peeled off his bodysuit like a serpent shedding its skin. It would be a lovely evening to die, and like Odura, Sicera would do so with only that which he could claim as his own, though, less physically sated.

He had come into this universe without a name, without clothes, and without armament. Few men had the luxury of going out in blissful, bare obscurity, and 'Berovai intended to make the most of it. History would not look back and remember him, for greatness or for fault. The void of the former was well worth the elimination of the latter.

The betrayal set in motion by the Prophets was painstaking, and if the Sangheili survived as a species Berov would continue without record of the manner in which, or the reason, this one kaidon had died. He would die in the darkness of the last place he held as his own. With nothing. No lovely young concubine to satisfy him before running her blades through his chest, no empire burning around him, no eunuch slave to record for all eternity the last bloody moments of his life and the details of how it had ended up as such. No story of personal fault to live for all eternity.

Nothing.

History would be silent on the matter of his death and that was more than he had a right to hope for after what he had done.

The breadth of his foolishness had cost many lives and he deserved no better than Odura for his sin. Sicera had been blinded by his own cause and had set his men up for slaughter just as surely as that damnable leader had done before him in the annals of antiquity. It was not love or mercy, or even the expansion of his empire, which had brought the Legion Master to the moment of his death, but personal corruption. He was to have been promoted to Imperial General at the successful conclusion of this mission; at least, that was the lure used to hinder his better judgment and convinced him not to listen to his most trusted and loyal friend.

Was it any more noble than the worst of his lineage?

Was it better to be fooled by one set of desires over others?

No, in the end, power had been presented as honor and the very blood in his veins had betrayed him.

Sicera snorted a laugh, _But, Odura had stooped so low as to give a slave his name back…_

Slowly, a toothy smile crept across his face and 'Berovai bellowed a deep, mirthful laugh at the thought.

A muffled shout interrupted his moment of understanding and the command center doors cracked, the seam jolting apart at an angle. A flood of sounds filtered in as the Legion Master stepped naked to stand in the center of the room. The wedged tips of a hull splitter were jammed into the awkward, uncooperative opening and the device was cranked hard from the other side. Metal creaked and the doors dimpled at the edges against pressure. Sicera could see flashes of various creatures beyond and hear their excited chatter.

The opening yielded in fits, metal buckling as it tried to hold against retaining locks, until structural integrity reached its limit against the breaching device. The doors complained a final time before bucking partially back into their respective casings.

Furry, unkempt hands and taloned Kig-Yar fingers grabbed at the door edges and shoved them aside allowing a handful of heavily armed traitors to spill into the room. Five beasts in stolen Sangheili armor and a slew of Sicera's former Special Operations Unggoy and Kig-Yar barged in, eyes scanning, weapons at the ready…

All paused for a decidedly uncomfortable second and eyes shifted to avoid the sight of an utterly shameless, completely nude Sangheili standing casually and unarmed before them. Kig-Yar squawked in disgust and the Unggoy all backed away as a group. One of the brutes called over his shaggy shoulder for the pack leader.

Izakkus shoved his way through, stepping forward, plasma rifle trained on the cause of his prolonged aggravation and his hatred for the man rose to a new level. 'Berovai had the nerve to greet an advancing force completely helpless, with not so much as a stitch to cover himself or blade with which to make a defense. Completely without fear.

It was the highest of Sangheili insults.

Izakkus seethed as a knowing smile slowly spread across the Legion Master's multi-jawed face. With a snarl of rage, the Jiralhanae took a threatening step forward, closing a finger over the trigger of his weapon as Sicera 'Berovai closed his eyes and uttered a guttural, triumphant laugh.

* * *

**Caddo Parish/Governor's Mansion**

The cool of the evening was washing into the room on a salt breeze. Waves could be heard crashing from the open gallery doors as the long shadows of evening stretched to envelop the room. Azrael Ashmund sat in a King George style chair with a tumbler of brandy in one hand and a UNSC Army issue M6G Magnum dangling from the other, looking on as Joseph Edwards stood shivering just outside the French doors on the wide porch. The ocean glistened from a distance behind him.

The man was filthy, even by the day's standard. His hair was greasy, flecked with dirt, and mussed. Ugly bruising marred one side of his head and a tear rent the clothing across his chest as lines of congealing blood slid from his torso to drain down his pants and puddle around his boots. It was far too long into the summer for him to have a chill, but massive blood loss did tend to do that to a person.

"You're _late,_"Ashmund said, raising the glass to his lips.

Joseph fidgeted.

"How many?" Azrael asked after he had taken the required moments to savor a good drink.

"Nine," Edwards confessed, his wide eyes downcast and bloody snot dripping in a glob from his mouth.

Ashmund snorted in disgust, "I sent you out with _nine_," he said through gritted teeth, "Are you telling me you have come back _alone_; with _nothing_?"

Joseph winced as he shifted, clearing his throat but winding up harking a blob of thick mucus instead. He swallowed it out of pure fear, "No, sir," he answered as convincingly as he could, "We made contact with our plants, they gave us the location of some reservoirs hidden on the installation and confirmed where the Elites and UNSC are mostly camped out. They had drew us a map," Edwards made to dig in a pocket but Ashmund raised a hand, "_Drawn_." He interrupted.

The other man had the sense to look chastened for his poor grammar, "and…and they showed us where there are gaps in the patrols," he continued, "and now we've got an idea of how armed they are and where they stage their weapons and…"

Azrael set aside his glass, the container clapping loudly against the marble top of a side table. Joseph went quiet as Ashmund rose slowly and neatened his faded shirt and trousers, "And what of my runners? The rest of my plasma weapons? The Ghosts?" he asked darkly, casually strolling forward and leaning a shoulder against the door frame.

Edwards ran a shaky had through his hair, "The Brutes…something…something's changed," he said, "We went to the meeting point," he said earnestly, his eyes full of residual fear and pleading, "and we had them captives to exchange like always…"

His words trailed off as he seemed to stumble over his own lips. Ashmund imperceptibly gritted his teeth and ignored the swine's butchering of the English language. He and a minimal part of his crew had taken up in the Governor's Mansion after the tables turned on the Brutes. Seizing an opportunity, Azrael had made the proverbial deal with the devil and secured a more remote location to prepare. The Brutes loved the taste of humans, and it was far easier for the less motivated of their kind to trade Covenant weapons and vehicles for an easy meal than to risk being caught by Sangheili patrols within the city. It was a _valuable _deal.

"That big one, he…he said they don't need our deal anymore. And they just…just…just started killing everyone. The captives, the runners, everybody…I only got away because…"

Joseph startled when Ashmund reached out a big hand and patted his shoulder sympathetically. Azrael steered the other man around and the two of them descended the steps and walked out across the overgrown lawn toward the retaining wall and a set of stone stairs which lead down to the beachfront. Edwards hobbled along and shook, nodding to himself as if in reassurance that his account was sufficient.

The men stepped down the walk and Joseph fought for his footing as his boots sank into the sand, "You have been my most valuable resource," Ashmund mused, pausing and turning to face the other man.

Edwards just nodded, a bit confused.

Azrael clicked his tongue against the inside of his teeth making a tisking sound, "Until now," he snapped, bringing the pistol up and firing into Edward's head before the man had a chance to register what was about to happen.

A spray of blood ejected from the back of Joseph's head and his body keeled backwards into a heap on the beachside. Ashmind closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling as if in meditation before turning and strolling back to the house.

* * *

**Fort Champlain **

Darkness was creeping in across the remains of the installation. Everything was bathed in the gray shadows of coming dusk. A breeze kept the stench of rot to a minimum, but every now and again the scent of death would assault the nose or the wind would shift and the smell of cremation pits would mingle with the lingering smell of human cooking.

This was the only time Stealth Major 'Korid took to himself. With the suns sinking at his back and the storms having long exhausted their rain and moved on, the stars would begin dotting the night's sky and he could just be alone and at peace. It was the hour when humans would be putting their young to bed and surviving refugees not assigned to some night time duty would be preparing to take their rest. He had once spent this time watching over and helping care for Amy, but she had made it abundantly clear he had exhausted his usefulness to her. So, in the hours when his daily work was done for an extended period exceeding his need for sleep, he sat and…thought. Or did not think. Whichever.

For the most part it was peaceful.

Quiet.

Familiar.

Even if painfully so.

He had done this as a child. Though, it was onto the roof of the house his mother had moved them into to which he climbed and looked up at a night's sky just a foreign.

The decision Mother made to leave her ancestral homeland altered his life. Had she stayed he would have ended up as a…farmer, poor, just like the rest of her clan. He never would have gone to a war college and would have had few options or avenues to increase social standing. Torsch understood it,_ had_ understood it even then, but that never made being uprooted and taken from a colony world he knew to Sanghelos easier. There, he had been an outsider in every possible way.

At eight years old, Torsch had looked up into the darkness that first night in a new land and felt the foundation of his world shatter when he could not find the constellations. He had _known_ it would look different, but seeing it had been….

Things he had learned were nigh to eternal were suddenly not the same. After more than sixty years as a citizen of Berov the sky there became more familiar, but it was not…home.

And, now, he would likely never see either sky again. Every day, the chances of returning to the legion were less. Whatever the Jiralhanae were doing was obviously not going according to their plan, but there was still the chance the brutes would take the flagship and glass the planet.

With a sigh, 'Korid kicked his legs, thumping his bare heels against the façade of the hospital building, and shoveled another mouthful of rations into his face. He was sitting along the raised edge of the rooftop, legs dangling from the side, scooping the last of his meal into his mandibles, looking up at the sky and feeling completely adrift.

Granted, humans were far more strange than the people of Berov had ever been at first. Unlike Sangheili of all races he had known, these creatures were fundamentally bizarre. They had an aversion to consuming raw meat and seemed horrified at the prospect of cannibalism. Their young were wild and unruly and _loud_ and apparently corporal punishment was frowned upon, or at least any meaningful use thereof. Humans were disturbingly open with their displays of affection for their children and one another. It was quite unsettling.

Humans also found it necessary to bring mechanized weapons to all forms of hunts, and they slept and ate an inordinate amount for their size. They had odd ways of preparing their food and preferred to season and cook their meats beyond recognition. Though the humans were hospitable enough to offer to share their sustenance, the Sangheili generally stuck to their own dwindling field rations and small vertebrate rodents and other furry mammals which were plentiful in the city areas.

Torsch poked at the last of his meal. Being largely carnivores by nature, the Sangheili's rations were compact wafers composed of meat proteins and, unlike what he had observed the humans preparing as stored foods, made no pretenses about what it was. The crackers could be soaked and consumed as a gruel or gnawed upon as they were. Though certainly intrigued by the differences in food preservation and preparation, and curious as to the various smells put off by human cuisine, few of the Sangheili had dared more than a perfunctory tasting for fear of any embarrassing gastrointestinal ramifications. Torsch shied away altogether because he could feel his insides turn just at the smell.

He shook his head and grunted against the thought, setting aside the empty field ration container near his boots and helmet. Stretching himself out on the ledge, 'Korid laced his hands behind his head and looked up at the sky. The last rays of the suns had finally been snuffed out beyond the western horizon and stars winked back from the sky by the millions. A hazy streak of the galaxy slashed across in a silvery arc and by now two bluish moons would be peeping from behind the remains of tall buildings in the distance somewhere.

"'Korid?"

The utterance was quiet by human standards, but for a Sangheili's ears it was quite audible, and to Torsch's ears, it was distinctly _Amy. _

'Korid could feel a mandible involuntarily twitch and scowled up at the sky. She was the last _thing _he wanted to find him here. Avoidance tactics which had proven effective for the last few days were apparently insufficient. He had managed not to see her or come across her, or interact with her in any way. He had no wish to hear her continued contentions that he was a reprobate or be demeaned by a human woman playing a hateful game with him.

Amy paused, she hadn't expected to find him there, or see him ever again for that matter. She had woken and couldn't sleep and decided to just wander around. It hadn't been a conscious plan to climb the stairs to the roof, but she had and now…this was awkward.

Torsch swung his legs over the ledge and sat up with a low growl. He came up here to get away from humans, it was, or at least _had been, _peaceful. That was all likely to change now that _she _had shown up and her mouth had clearly not stopped functioning. He gritted his teeth in frustration. He did not have it in him to do this. Not now.

Amy approached slowly though everything inside was screaming danger. As she drew near and braced her hands against the raised brick crowning the building, he seemed to drop his head, shoulders slumping, "I do not wish," he grumbled and heaved a sigh, "to quarrel with you, woman."

The pain and weariness in his voice made her flinch. Starr couldn't help but feel genuine empathy for whatever hell he was in. Everything that had happened couldn't be easy for him either. She drew a slow breath, pausing to calm the weird feeling twisting her guts before she spoke quietly, "I didn't come here to fight with you."

He blinked, then gradually turned to look at her. That was the reaction he had hoped for but not the one he had expected.

_Then, why did he feel somehow…disappointed? _

_And, what game could she up to now? _

He sat there in silence as Amy climbed onto the crowning a distance away from him. Crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap, she craned her neck and, for the first time in years, looked at the stars. It was quiet for a long time and Amy could almost feel him squinting at her suspiciously. When she turned to him, he was.

'Korid was staring at her, the reflective discs of his eyes darting ever so slightly as if studying.

Amy felt her heart do a little jump that made her look immediately away, "When I was little I use to think," she began, pausing with a gentle, nervous laugh, "that all those stars were angels God had put up there to watch over us and keep us safe."

Torsch turned and followed her gaze. That made no sense to him whatsoever. Add _weird stories passed along to their children _to the list human oddities.

"Then one day, I realized my angels must have gotten lost, or maybe God stopped giving a shit," she shrugged, "My grandmother tried to fix all of that but…then you guys showed up and started exterminating entire planets and…I don't know what to believe anymore."

He looked down at her, not wanting to hear the hurt in her voice. He felt caught between trying to figure out if this was a trick or if he should say something. Ultimately, Torsch decided to err on the side of saying nothing and just sat there with her in the silence which followed.

"My dad died when I was nine," she said without prompt, unfolding her legs and dangling them from the ledge, "My mom and step-dad were sent to prison…" there was a pause as she picked at her nails and kicked her feet, "I was thirteen when I went to live with my grandparents on Earth and," she laughed softly to herself, "after all the things that had happened to me the one that made the dam break was the first time I went outside at night and it was like the whole universe looked so…" she pursed her lips, furrowing her brows and crinkling up her nose in thought.

"Foreign," he rumbled quietly for her.

Amy nodded, swallowing hard at how insightful that really was, "Sometimes it still hits me that _that _was what made it all real, _that _was what my mind latched onto. Looking up and not seeing anything I could recognize and feeling like...like…" she shook her head and smiled a jaded smile, "a stupid kid I guess."

She sighed in frustration, "I'm sorry," she said, realizing she was beginning to ramble and he probably thought she was an idiot on top of being a bitch.

Hitching her legs back over the crown, Amy stood and brushed the seat of her pants, "I didn't mean to…" she began, thinking to make an apology for her previous outbursts. She faltered when he turned at looked at her because everything she could think of sounded, dumb.

"I don't think…" Amy tried, "I wasn't…"

_Yeah._

She combed her fingers through her hair absently and twiddled with a lock for a few moments, "I'm sorry, 'Korid," she said in a whisper, "for being…myself and for interrupting your," she looked up at the sky, "this."

He cocked his head to one side as she gave him an earnest look then turned to go. She had almost made it to the stairwell when she heard him call back to her, "You felt as if you were lost."

Amy turned and fought with herself over the smile that threatened to creep across her face.

She nodded then answered softly, "Yeah," before turning and disappearing down the stairs.

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etienne**

The last screams had stopped several hours before. Now all that remained was the sweet and tangy scent of roasting…_people_…that wafted in the summer air and drifted into her makeshift prison. Something had changed and Lucinda Deléon sat numb and empty and alone in her hell.

They had come for _everyone_ but her, leaving her to hear the cries and sobs and pleas that lingered until it was down only to the incessant _chop, chop, chop _as bodies were dismembered. For the first time since she had been captured, Lucinda was ready to die. She didn't want to be alone. She didn't want to think about what they would do with her now. She didn't want to be around when their celebration reached its crescendo.

It _was_ a celebration. The feeling in the air was unmistakable. Her captors had suddenly gone from seeming to wait in sullen calm to jubilance and hearty laughter as they made preparations for _something_.

Lucinda lay down on her side in the dirt, dressed in ill-fitting, dirty clothing which had once belonged to another prisoner. There was no relief from her pain in the coolness of the ground beneath her. The only thing which took her mind off of her physical suffering was the sound of laughter, the dancing of numerous fires as their flames were reflected on the far rim of her prison, and the incessant chatter of her captors as they moved about unseen. But, that was just replacing one torment with another.

They had set up a holding area by sealing off the mid-section of a rock formation with some kind of energy barrier. It was like a cave, only probably man made. Just a wide tunnel to nowhere. No matter what angle she found, Lucinda could only manage to hear her captors. She could never see them unless they came into the cavern. She took comfort in that they were too distracted now to bother with her…which was little solace since their amusement had left her barely able to crawl, let alone walk. She had found herself praying for massive infection. Anything, _anything_ just to make it so there was an end in sight.

The various sounds of mirth rose in waves and Lucinda clamped her eyes against the sounds coming from out there somewhere. God, she hated these monsters. She had learned early on to just accept what was happening, but as the sounds of torment rose to cheers and taunting she felt a consuming hopelessness.

_How long could they do this? When would it stop? _

She lay there and would have cried if there were tears left, until sounds drown one another, until she fell into the blackness of sleep, until the break of another day began casting pillars of light along the walls, until heavy footfalls and the approaching sound of laughter and foreign words began bouncing down in a nauseous chorus to her. A cold swell of determination waned to a weak sob of fear. She didn't even have the strength or stomach contents to get sick at the thought of what they had planned to do to her. It was just acceptance, and hope, that she would die.

The energy barrier collapsed with a hiss but Lucinda was beyond the point of dreaming of having the strength to rush the opening. There was no fleeting remnant of the will to survive to pass before her better judgment took hold of her. She was hollow.

Then a heavy _thud _sounded a few feet away and the energy barrier hissed back and the footfalls and chatter faded down the cavern. As the din receded into the distance and the quite of her prison sank back in, a gurgling and painful noise slowly assaulted her ears. Lucinda pushed herself over and rolled onto her back, dropping her head to the side and daring to look.

In a bloody heap, the battered form of an Elite was left crumpled like an old tissue. He was naked, and stripes of flesh and muscle were torn from his body all over. Blisters and crusts of burned blood overlay deep gouges. Both of his hands looked crushed. One was a mass of swollen tissue weeping blood and fluids, and the other was twisted around in the wrong direction, the appendage degloved and skin missing halfway up his forearm. Flesh ringing his neck was ripped in lines that looped all the way around and a length of alien cord was wound through his mandibles then bound tight around his snout. Angry, inflamed tissue ballooned at the binding's edges.

Lucinda rose, pushing herself up on wobbly arms to sit as best she could. The creature's nostrils flared and it drew a breath with a slurping sound and coughed against its gag. Then, swollen lids cracked and purple, bloody fluid spilled from the corner of his eyes and across the battered face as dark black slits lolled about against yellow irises stained with hemorrhage. Lucinda sat looking at him and, for the first time, saw someone she considered more unfortunate than herself to be kept alive.

As the Elite let out a muffled groan, a damaged hand twitched and Lucinda reached toward him, "No," she said hoarsely, "Don't…"

She was thankful he didn't persist because she wasn't sure there was a place on him she could touch and not add to his misery.

He lay there wheezing and bleeding as she carefully unwound the cord from his mouth. His jaws felt like broken mush and when his mandibles drooped open Lucinda could see gaps of missing teeth and the shattered remnants of fangs. She tore at the hem of her shirt, ignoring the cracked and raw skin of her fingers. She patted at bleeding cuts on his face and found herself trembling as she continued to take in his injuries. Then, a bloodied eye opened again and looked up at her.

Guilt assaulted her with renewed force. Guilt because she had felt a spark of relief at not being the object of their torment; guilt because she had no real way to ease his suffering; guilt because a part of her rejoiced at not being alone; guilt because she couldn't put an end to it for either of them.

He moaned and lay his head against the ground, his body wracked with a labored breath. Lucinda scooted to retrieve the alien tin of water she had been alotted and wiped a tear as it slid down her cheek. She sat and awkwardly scooped water onto the Elite's mouth. He balked at first but eventually instinct overrode determination and a swollen tongue marred with open cuts worked to catch the fluid and funnel it through his mandibles. He drank until he couldn't keep the coordination up and Lucinda set the tin aside. Dropping her forehead to his puffy cheek, she lightly stroked the top of his head and whispered apologies as he rattled a weak, broken purr.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

**Outside New Saint Etienne**

It was hot. Not mildly uncomfortable, like what Unggoy were use to when not in their natural climate, which was most of the time for those in service to the Covenant or as slaves, but _hot_. Yipip missed the days when it was raining, at least then it had been tolerable. His methane reserves were still good but that was only because he had rerouted his systems to prolong the breathable supply. Nothing was left for keeping his undersuit cooled. The breeze that kicked up every now and then was only a minimal help. But, at least they had come upon food. A lot of food. Miles and miles: acres and acres of food.

Naaco was stuffing bunches of the sweet fruit they had found into his mandibles, stems and all, while Yipip meticulously peeled the skins from individual globes of green and purple and sucked the sticky insides through the port in the front of his mask. It was a bit bland in his opinion, but it was enough. At least he wasn't a Sangheili and didn't feel the need to go rooting through the dirt for more protein rich foods. The idea of eating bugs and worms was just gross, but Naaco seemed happy to pick bugs from the vines and dig up the mulch all along the rows of hanging fruits with a stick and sniff out the small insects. He could find the wiggly-crawlies under rocks and leaves and seemed to know where to tear the bark from trees. It was impressive and a bit sad. Yipip wondered how much of that was instinct and how much of it had been learned out of necessity.

Being free was agreeable for his friend. Maybe it was being able to eat until his belly was distended; maybe it was sleeping the sleep of the free. Whatever it was, Naaco seemed happy. His bruises had faded away and he had no one to cower from or bow to. He was dirty and he smelled awful, but he was _happy_.

Yipip slurped another grape innard then wiped his hands on his tunic before retrieving the mapping device and giving it a click. They had gone west, to where the suns touched the ground at darkfall, just like they had been told, for _a lot _of darkfalls. Pillars of smoke rose in the distance in ever diminishing streams but didn't seem to get any closer for all of their walking. They had heard a few humans, Covenant vehicles, the chatter of Kig-Yar and Unggoy and the bellow of Brutes, and hidden until the noise passed, but the only Sangheili they had seen had been dead.

He hadn't known how long it could take to find the Legion Master's men. Part of him had just supposed they would be crawling all over the place. But this planet was not very colonized to have so many humans living on it. The escape pod had put down way away from civilization and fighting and they had walked until they both had blisters on their feet. Open valleys had given way to forests with tall trees and prickly brush that eventually thinned to expanses of rolling farm land and endless rows of fruits and vines and untended herds of animals. They had crested yet another hill and in the horizon Yipip could see the hazy outline of a city in the distance.

The mapping system projected a topographical display of the entire planet in a purple hologram that could be manipulated and zoomed in and out from any angle. Every now and then humans would show up as reddish dots and anything that was or use to be Covenant would show up as a green pinpoint. There were a few green pinpoints inside the city when Yipip zoomed out, and a couple of lines could be seen heading toward the shadow of _Vengeant Shepherd _and a cluster appeared to be already waiting near the ship. The Sangheili had given up their comms because of the integrated tracking systems early on, and the mapping device wouldn't pick up humans until they were close, so the Unggoy could be certain anything that once looked friendly was now not. At least they had a way of not accidentally bumping into the Jiralhanae.

Naaco was flaked out across a bed of peat under the intermittent shade of their food plants, looking up at the projection from underneath. He reached up and touched the hologram and it flickered and rotated at his touch, "What if they do not believe us?" he asked quietly.

Yipip looked down at his friend who was resting his head in the dirt, staring up into the topographical image. The Unggoy knew something of Sangheili social casts since the species were bound in so many ways, and he knew Naaco was right to be concerned. He was a slave without his master. If 'Berovai's men didn't believe their story, well, there was only one punishment for an escaped Sangheili slave: they would kill him.

"We have this," Yipip said in reassurance, lifting the map, "The device bears his seal, it was his."

"Maybe they will believe we _stole_ it."

"Maybe they won't."

Naaco folded his lower mandibles over his upper and closed his eyes. He did not know how to think like a free person, how to not think that he would be in trouble for this somehow. There were too many choices, too many different ways things could go: too much he could be blamed for. After a few moments, he rolled over onto his stomach, propped his elbows in the dirt and cupped his chin in his palms. His master's men were never mean to him, most of them acted as if he did not even exist, but that was before. Once they got the map to the soldiers…then what would happen to him? What would they want to know? What would they think had happened? Would they hurt him? Would they just take what they needed and throw them away?

Naaco paused and looked at the manacles secured around his wrist. The thick metallic bands were etched with Sicera 'Berovai's name, the kaidon's crest, and the rune of a legion master. They had been on his arms for as long as he could remember along with the Mark of Disobedience that hashed up both forearms. He had no memory of what he had done so wrong; he knew it had to have been _something_ but his life had never been any different as far as he knew. He was nothing because of it; not really a person; not a female but not technically a male in any capacity either. He could barely _read_ and that was only because of Yipip. He was just property to be bought or sold or killed or whatever suited his master. 'Berovai was mean, but he had limits. He had given him back his birth-name…that had to mean _something_, but Naaco could not figure out what.

He did not understand the world or lives or thinking of free men, and he had no desire to, but now he had no one to tell him what to do, no one to protect him…and that was terrifying.

"Maybe," the small Sangheili said, dropping his hands into the dirt and doodling with his claws as he looked toward the white-washed farmhouse, "Maybe we stay here for a little while?"

* * *

**Outside New Saint Etienne/In the shadow of **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

They were determined to make his death take as long as possible. That much became apparent very quickly. Lucinda scooted to his side and looked over the Elite as he lay oozing in a puddle of his own blood and fluids. It ran down his blanched hide from new cuts and gashes and mingled with rivers of sweat pouring from his skin. From a slick of congealed blood and soured fluids smeared across the cavern floor, flies and gnats alighted and attempted to settle on him. The insects danced as he panted in rapid, shallow breaths and Deléon fluttered her hands about to chaise them away.

His face was once again bleeding and beaten to a pulp, mandibles twisted and fangs missing in gaps. Blood seeped from fresh spaces and stained the varying tips of teeth trying to grow in to replace those lost in the days before.

Or had it been weeks?

One hand was completely missing, a shard of bone was left protruding like a sharp pike from his right forearm. The fingers of his left hand looked as if someone had tried to pull his claws out, succeeding only in ripping off the tips of his forefingers, leaving his inner thumb clawless and completely rending his outer thumb off. Chunks of him were missing in gaping wounds which looked like torn bite marks. The hoved covering of the toes on his right foot had been ripped off and the soles of both feet were blistered with blood-filled burns.

Lucinda thought the whole of her own misery was small in comparison.

Her captors seemed to have no interest in her now that they had him to torture; and guilt weighed down heavily on her for that. Never once had she felt the desire to fling herself before these monsters in place of another because she valued her own life, but as she looked down at him and his fresh injuries, as he trembled in shock and cold from blood loss, Lucinda felt everything she had experienced and seen come crashing down on her and she just wanted to make it stop.

The ability of his species to heal was astounding in speed and efficiency, and Deléon came to the soul crushing realization it could take weeks more for him to die. By the time she had woken next to him after he had first been brought in, the gaping wounds to his body had sealed over with a thin film of skin crusted in dried blood. Swelling had receded and blisters had abated to half-filled sacks of fluid. When he had opened his eyes, the yellow of his irises were stained in shades of brown and green as hemorrhage had begin subducting back into his body. His degloved hand had been drawn and the exposed muscle of his lower forearm had shriveled, the outlying skin constricting into a tight band at the line of the injury in preparation for his body to shed what it could not save. It was efficient in a brutally heart-wrenching way.

He had stirred only enough for her to help him drink, guilt assailing her for aiding in prolonging his misery; for doing the slightest to keep him alive; guilt for her selfishness in not wanting him to die.

And then, they had come back for him.

Over and over the cycle continued. He would be taken away and hours after his screams had stopped he would be pitched into the cell like so much garbage and allowed enough time to begin to heal. Just as he would start to emerge from unconsciousness, a day, a maybe two, of his body struggling to right itself against massive trauma, he would be dragged back out again. The memory of his stained eyes looking back at her, speaking the void of his existence as he was physically towed away was haunting.

Each time he had been hauled back to her with more and more injuries, more and more of him damaged or missing.

Lucinda sniffed, tears burning as they escaped her eyes and slid down her raw cheeks. She pulled herself up to his side, using her feet to scoot the tin of water nearer. She had no clothing left with which to minister to his injuries. Completely nude and not caring, Lucinda had long been robbed of any sense of modesty. What was her nakedness when he was being so completely and repeatedly tortured?

Deléon collected up her hair, combing it over her shoulder with her fingers and dipping the ends in the water before using it to brush the crusty blood from his face. Blood and mucus bubbled from the torn slit of a nostril as he gurgled and a sob escaped her at the helplessness she felt. He was all she had in this place. She wanted him to die and escape this hell with the same ferocity she wanted him to keep living and stay. The dueling emotions tore her apart inside.

A thick, damp curl swept along the line of his upper jaw and an eye cracked, the slit of his pupil tracking lazily as it constricted and dilated in tremors, "It's…it's a-alright," Lucinda cried softly in hiccups, "I'm h-h-here."

He moaned in a deep bellow, sliding his left arm through the slick of fluids beneath him and reaching for her hand with his tattered fingers, his brain barely able to rationalize his existence...

…_She wept over him. This woman, whose people he had wronged, killed because of a doctrine he believed from the first to be false but followed for want for power; this young girl, assailed in her own private way, tried to ease his suffering; the girl to whom he had done nothing but bring monsters responsible for her torment; it was she who washed his face with her tears, tried to clean his injuries, helped to keep him warm, gave to him her water and rations from her own hands; who sang softly in her tiny human voice; and apologized repeatedly as if_ she_ had done something wrong…_

Lucinda reached for him, his body going lax as her trembling hand slid into his.

Drawing a ragged breath, Lucinda leaned and pressed her lips against his forehead, "I'm s-so sorry," she mumbled against his cool flesh with a whimper, "Please, God, m-make them s-stop doing this…"

…_The void of unconsciousness beckoned to take him away from the only genuine comforting he felt he had ever had in life, a comfort he did not deserve but which made him feel his sins were forgiven even in his present agony, comfort given as a tender kindness which made his punishment bearable if only for the fleeting moments when he knew she was near. In those precious seconds, he could hear her as she prayed. Prayed to her god, not for herself, but that whomever was listening would have _mercy..._on _him_… _

* * *

**Fort Champlain **

A semi-circle of Warthogs, civilian trucks, and a couple of dented Ghosts sat just outside the main hospital entrance. There had been a parade of excitement earlier in the afternoon when soldiers from 703rd Armor's motor pool had gotten a few vehicles back up and running. A literal parade, with soldiers hanging from the sides of seven vehicles as the convoy tottered down the streets of post, the soldiers hooting and whooping and punching the air in triumph until they came to a stop near Lieutenant Colonel Dover's command table on the trampled front lawn. The silver-haired officer had smiled for the first time in over a month.

Covenant EMP bombardment pre-ground attack was a bastard, but it turned out, not a complete devastation. Of course, no one usually lived long enough to figure that out. Dormant equipment not cycling or trickling electricity was relatively unscathed, not that there was much of _that_ in UNSC or UEG Land. That easily left ninety percent or more of the grid down, but reparable given enough time. The primary armory was still locked up tight and the operations grid for Nantes Arsenal was completely fried, so it was still down to scavenging weapons and collecting brass to reload ammunition.

But, they were mobile again. Somewhat. Transporting caches of goods would certainly be a bit easier.

Amy stood toweling her hair at the window, enjoying the evening breeze on her freshly scrubbed skin, feeling the cleanest she had in her life. She had taken a shower, an honest-to-God, with soap and shampoo and everything, shower_. _Though it had been in a field wash station tent, and hadn't involved a Jacuzzi, bubbles, or a bottle of vintage wine, it had still boarded on being a religious experience.

The missions to locate reservoirs and the upriver pipelines had been successful. For the effort, Fort Champlain now had access to three tanks being filled form the River Alsace with water fit for consumption. There was now a row of water trailers equipped with wash stations and a field shower tent providing water through basic suction and gravitational flow. The whole arrangement was neatly flanked with hand-trenched drainage ditches. It was the most glorious thing Amy had seen in a long time.

There was a thump on the adjacent wall and a placard warning occupants they were under video surveillance at all times popped free of its clear plastic moorings and clattered across the floor. Starr rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and made an exasperated gesture, "Why?" she asked as a giggling eruption of half-hearted French protests came muffled from beyond the wall followed by a dark, silky retort.

Amy scowled and stepped over to the wall, giving the surface a few hearty bangs and snapped, "Hey!" _bang, bang, _"Knock it off," _bang, bang, bang. _

There was a half-beat of silence before Penny could be heard breaking out into hysterical laughter. Kote rumbled an amiable apology and Amy sighed, snatching the fallen placard and tossing it onto her bed.

_Thank God _that_ no longer applies, _Starr thought, contemplating the image of an eye affixed under the plastic plate's warning, _Otherwise some poor bastard on security duty would be getting a tutorial on interspecies, third trimester sex positions. _She made a face and bodily shivered with a gagging sound before moving to fix her hair up into a hasty bun and step into her boots.

She could have insisted on moving herself down to tent-city a week ago. No, she _had _insisted on moving down to tent-city a week ago, but Doctor Guthrie was determined to get her to stay.

He was endlessly intrigued by the Covenant bandage still affixed to her side and wanted her close so he could monitor its progression. Honestly, it seemed as legitimate as any reason. The thing _was_ kind of neat. Porous but liquid resistant, like a thick layer of skin; the bandage would weep fluids and oppose water but felt somehow breathable. Guthrie had given it his critical eye and deemed it an amazing piece of medical technology: a regenerative and protective covering which eliminated the need for debridement, conventional tube drainage, skin grafting, antibiotics, or pain management. It was just as advanced as any other technology the Covenant possessed and was the only thing the Elites didn't consider a dishonor.

They didn't like 'doctors', which for them equated to 'surgeons'. The most they would allow someone to do was shove bones back in and snap them back in place and top the injury with a leathery bandage. That bad boy was slapped over any kind of wound: burn, gouge, gunshot, and if you lived, well, good for you.

Amy scratched at the bandage through her shirt.

It itched like crazy, but it had drawn out infection and kept her from feeling any discomfort, or outright _pain_, associated with second and third degree burns. It was now a half-shriveled, scab-like _thing _attached to her skin. But, it had been her ticket to her own room. Check that: her ticket to getting Penny and Kote _out _of the room she still shared with Grand-mama Larouche and 'Korid.

Penny was her friend, and Kote was…well, Kote, but holy hell, she couldn't deal with their…whatever… in such close, shared quarters anymore. They tried to be discrete, the problem was they were woefully deficient at it.

Amy stepped from her room into the hall, gave their closed door a set of irritated bangs for good measure, and made her way to the stairwell.

It was one of the golden times of the day. There was a two hour break every morning and evening when biting insects had a leisurely changing of the guard and one could go about unmolested.

Down on a side lawn, a group of children were embroiled in a game of soccer. Starr smiled to herself when their ball skittered toward a group of Spec Ops Sangheili. One of the aliens stepped out and flicked the ragged ball into the air with his foot and bunted it back to the teens with his head, causing the juveniles to break out into hoots and cheers in high amusement.

Amy made her way to the Kitchen: a large construction tent which now served as Fort Champlain's only chow hall. There were folding tables set up inside with a soup kitchen line of foods. Rations being what they were, cuisine largely consisted of stews and soups in huge pots prepared over gas burners behind the serving line. As she took up her place in line, Starr saw Grand-mama Larouche bustling about. The old woman's influence had brought actual taste to many of the utilitarian meals. And, she was thoughtful in a deeply touching way. As soon as she found out Amy preferred oatmeal she made sure the option was always available.

There was genuine sentiment there which crossed the language barrier and Amy was certain Penny had let her grandmother in on some of their conversations. Starr's Gran had made her oatmeal before bed almost every single night after she moved to Earth and there was a long-held comfort with the simple food.

After dousing her bowl with three packets of sugar and a heavy shake of cinnamon from an industrial canister, Amy walked back to Fairfield Army Medical Center and took the supply stairs to the roof.

'Korid was sitting on the ledge, back to the sunset, legs dangling off as she approached.

They had fallen into a nightly ritual of stargazing from the rooftop for the better part of two weeks. It was never a spoken thing, it just happened, and it had become as natural as putting on socks in the morning. They would sit up there with their backs to the sunset and watch the stars come out and talk until the bugs became unbearable. She still thought of him as an ass-hole, but at least he had stopped being a _total _dick. His company was surprisingly enjoyable and, she knew she wasn't an easy person to talk to: too defensive, quick to be snippy, overly sensitive about anything that looked like sexism or machoism. So, he got points for not ditching her. He had even snipped playfully back at her a few times, as awkward and totally _un_smooth as it had been.

"I hope you don't have any plans of sleeping tonight, 'Korid, " Amy said as she set her bowl aside and climbed up on the crown.

He was still ardent in refusing to tell her his first name and she was dutifully an ass about it.

It had become a contest, of her determination and his will, of its own entertaining proportions.

The Elite shoveled a scoop of gray slop into his mouth with utensils which resembled corkscrewed chopsticks and chewed, "I did not sleep _last_ night," he grumbled.

Once Torsch learned to keep his temper in check and not lash back at every perceived insult or put-down, he realized it could actually be entertaining to talk to her and let the irreverent things she sometimes said roll off of him, or, much to his surprise, snap back at her with a crude remark of his own. It was highly inappropriate on his part, but he increasingly found himself blatantly ignoring the ingrained and viciously reinforced instinct to ignore her goading. Though he still felt, at times, disgusted with this unusual lack of self control. There was no explanation for it. Their conversations remained safely away from personal matters and were more like general information-sharing on cultural differences. He could, and did, justify it as a form of recognizance, but had no reasonable excuse for his conduct aside from grasping at a feeling she invoked which was unfamiliar and terrifying, but compelling.

"I don't think the whole _floor_ slept last night, and they're at it _again_, just FYI," Amy drawled.

He was definitely going to have to speak with his second-in-command about the volume of his consort. It was embarrassing, and obscene, and put his mind to thinking things better left unthought.

Torsch clenched his mandibles and sighed wearily as she settled herself next to him, "You will have to excuse his…_enthusiasm_," he muttered irritably, cutting his eyes to her, "Kote is a rather young man."

Amy poked at her oatmeal, "You say that like you're not."

It was as close as she had come to directly raising a personal subject. He was as good at avoiding those as she was, even when discussing things which no doubt applied to him. That had also become a subtle battle of wills, with both of them blandly brushing over the details of their own lives.

'Korid thought about her statement for a moment. While he was certainly not old by Sangheili standards; not yet middle age; humans matured at a disproportionately accelerated rate. He was almost the age which humans, under the best of circumstances,_ averaged_ for the totality of their lives.

"Different circumstances," he rumbled, "Kote lost his wife and," he paused. While his mind had automatically sought a way to steer the subject away from himself it was not his place to divulge another man's personal matters.

Amy picked up on his hesitance and sensed an advantage, "Were you ever married?"

He barked a single laugh which spoke the full absurdity he felt of such a question. Then he shook his head ruefully and, for the first time, allowed his guard down, "No."

For one, he was completely devoted to his military service. A career in Stealth Operations was not conducive to keeping a wife happy. Then there was the matter of his deficiency in aesthetic appeal to the opposite sex; and the fact that he did not know how to deal with females; and that he stayed away from them as if they were a plague because in general they made him uncomfortable.

"I am not precisely what women of my kind desire in a husband."

He was barely what they desired in a mate, and his only real experiences with women were not particularly ones he cared to repeat. Any female he had managed to successfully woo had made it clear his military record and divergent genetics were the only reasons they were interested. Had it been possible to receive his seed without _him_ actually being involved in the process he was certain that was what they would have preferred.

"I find that hard to believe," Amy quipped, breaking him from disheartening thoughts.

There were times Torsch felt utterly baffled as to what to think of her. Human languages were rife with nuances. Slang, colloquialisms, idioms, and subtext which were all downright confusing in their own rights…and then they had this notion of _sarcasm _thrown into the mix.

Military transmissions could be translated without full fluency because military communications were void of much of the things which gave language flavor. Torsch could understand, read, write, and speak six human languages, but he never felt as if he really _knew_ them. It was little different than having had to learn the nuances of the dialect of Berov. The language structure and the majority of the words had been the same, but the rest had been just as foreign as learning the native tongue of the Kig-Yar.

It had occurred to him over the course of their many conversations Amy did not understand the nature of what she was doing as related to _his_ cultural upbringing. Despite that, he did not particularly like the way it made him feel nor the thoughts it sometimes set to war in his head but neither could he seem to bring himself to be concerned or angry about it anymore.

'Korid gave her a wan look and Amy smiled up at him, "After all, you're so charming," she added sarcastically.

He gave a playfully derisive snort.

Procuring a mate for a common man had little to do with _charm_. A second glance, a particular sidelong look at an acceptably attractive female, these were the indication of breeding interest. From there it was the woman's responsibility to review familial and service records and decide if a male was worthy of further consideration. Females held almost all decision making powers in matters of breeding and, other than being required by law to copulate with whatever Swordsman happened to find interest in them, they could be selective. Aside from that, courtship rituals were more interviews following formal rules feigned as coy discussions than anything else and sex was functionally sufficient.

"_Functionally. Sufficient." _Amy repeated slowly, as if the words were awful, "Jesus, 'Korid, that's the most unromantic thing I've ever heard."

The Elite looked out at the darkening night and cocked his head, drawing his mandibles together thoughtfully. Romance had nothing to do with it, "I was not attempting to convince them to propose marriage."

Starr almost choked on a mouthful of oatmeal as she laughed, "God, you're such a man."

His facial features furrowed, "Yes," he agreed.

Amy snickered to herself.

Their respective worlds were different in most ways but universal truths seemed to be stereotypical ones; and if she heard him say _'in my culture' _one more time she thought she'd scream; yet she found herself looking forward to these evening talks with the same kind of excitement a child looks forward to their birthday. She liked hearing him talk; it had taken on a comfortable, surreal quality.

He was every bit the arrogant man but there was also something else, something Amy couldn't quite make sense of in the context of his species, gender…the war.

"Were you married?" he asked.

It was amazing how war made life before past tense. Amy spooned another mouthful of oatmeal and thought, _Almost, _before answering, "No," she pushed the memory away as quickly as it made an unwelcome appearance, "It turns out, I'm not exactly what men of my kind want in a wife."

Torsch was puzzled by that answer but, despite the smile curving her lips, though better of prying further or making comment. In his culture, there was only one reason a male could have for refusing a female's proposal and not have her brothers hunt him down. 'Korid was certainly not going to go there or make light of _that._

Amy was thankful for the silence which followed; thankful he seemed willing to avoid the subject she dreaded most. For her, relationships which might have actually gone anywhere with men who were determined enough to scale the wall she built around herself eventually ended because of three words: Too. Much. Baggage.

"Stop picking at that," 'Korid ordered as Amy scratched lazily at her side.

She looked over at him, lifting her bowl above her head and scratching her ribs furiously like an ape just to spite him, "It fucking itches," she complained.

"That is a good sign."

"Well, tell me that when you have one of these things glued to your skin making you itch," she snapped.

'Korid slowly swiveled his head in her direction, his face a blank mask. Amy hated it when he looked at her like that, it did weird shit to her insides, "Tell _me _that when you are subject to being covered over a quarter of your body," he said in what she took as the best mocking tone he could manage.

A part of him thought it would be better if he kept on avoiding personal topics. But, he liked talking to her. It was entertaining to allow himself to be inappropriate in a controlled and guarded manner though it was confusing and beyond his station. There was no harm in it. While part of him warned about the dangers of letting himself become comfortable with her, he already knew it was too late for that. Torsch was not comfortable with people getting too close, _women_ getting too close, but she was damned well managing to do that. A willful part of him refused to back away against the better judgment of his memory.

She paused in her scratching and lowered her arm, thinking hard about what he had said, "What happened?" she asked.

It was not an injury he ever had want to discuss, he was not certain why he had even brought it up. It was the only reason women had any want of him and had precipitated a very unpleasant and lengthy experience at the hands of a calculating Mistress.

"I was…within the kill radius of a plasma grenade," he said hesitantly, "I was initially sent home with the intention of allowing my mother the rare honor of a corpse to prepare for cremation," an uncomfortable smile tugged at his mandibles then his face fell and he muttered, "I should not have survived."

Amy heard it, that tone which translated his words as meaning he wished he hadn't survived.

'Korid shifted and rolled his shoulders, "I was home for just over a month," that smile again, then that defeated fall again, "before it was determined I was well enough to return to full service," he forced a laugh, "My mother informed me she knew I would be fine all along, she said I was too obstinate to die."

"She was proud of you."

"Very."

Starr felt a twinge of jealousy but when she turned to look at him, the far off, pleased expression on his face wiped selfishness away and pulled at a very basic part of her that was female. _Aww, the big scary Elite loves his mommy, _she thought.

"Though...she insisted I was not well enough to be up after two weeks and attempted to scold me for leaving my bed," he said in the tight, insincere irritation of an adult who had enjoyed being cared for as much as he hated it.

"And?" she chided.

He have her a sly look then sneered, "And, I grabbed her and danced her around the kitchen."

Amy burst out laughing and heard him chuckle in response. For the first time, the sound which escaped him wasn't cautious but free and full of amusement. It seemed there actually _was_ a layer of vulnerability under all of that Sangheili bluster.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Thanks to KATT9033 and LyndaKey1 for the comments. :)

I used italics again in this one to differentiate between lucid (Lucinda or Izakkus) and not-quite-lucid (Sicera/Daniel) POVs. I probably could have done without it, but I wanted to make sure I didn't lose anyone in the craziness of this chapter. Don't worry he, the Elite captive (formerly Sicera, soon to be Daniel), will have a name again in the next chapter to eliminate confusion.

This one is gonna' get a bit rough, but I assume you have all played a violent game and you understand what the M rating means.

Another long-ish one for your reading enjoyment. I could have broken this into two chapters but I didn't want to mess with the flow.

* * *

Chapter Nine

**Outside New Saint Etienne/In the shadow of **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

"Come on," Lucinda coaxed gently, dribbling water on the Elite's twisted mandibles. The facial appendages twitched, his cracked and busted lips curling up in a slow, gap-toothed sneer.

_Consciousness returned in gradual measures, each time it seemed as if it took more and more of his dwindling strength to pull himself from the void between life and death. He could not give in to the desire to let go and die: he could not leave her here. Her voice echoed in his head, and he allowed himself to feel. The pain of numerous and repeated injuries was worth the comfort of her touch. An eye balked but opened against gummed over fluids and blood matting it shut. Her image was blurred and doubled against repeated trauma, but she was there. A sense of victory trickled through him. So long as he woke to her, and not the emptiness of death, he could count himself victorious. He would deny Izakkus the satisfaction of his death for as long as he could and force the beast to kill him outright instead of cowardly relenting under the pain torture. _

Lucinda Deléon felt her chapped lips twist into a smile when his blood-stained eyes looked up to her. Again, his body had tried to right itself while he lay unconscious. Scabs covered much of him. Channels of flesh had been scored away. Gaping chunks of missing hide and muscle were crusted over. A thin film of shiny, smooth new skin was unable to completely cover large wounds. Blisters had abated and he curled what was left of his fingers into a weak fist. As he drew up a leg, she could see the hoved material over his left toes was trying to reform.

As much as the knowledge that he was waking and still alive brought her relief, the understanding that his respite would be short lived crashed in on her. She shushed him, doing her best to be quiet, to keep him quiet; to tend him in these precious moments without drawing attention. He took a deep breath, water dripping from her fingers onto his swollen, raw tongue and trickling into his mouth.

Running her hands gingerly along his arm and shoulder, Lucinda could feel knots of angered and abused tissue under cool, clammy skin. She wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out, the fact that he had this long was some kind of perverse miracle.

_He wanted to sit up, but as he moved pain gripped his chest and he could feel his hearts falter, sending radiating spikes down his arms to his elbows. He could barely force his left side into action, he could feel his mandibles and brow ridge drooping, tingling against brain damage attempting to right itself as he lifted his head. _

_Worth it. Every agonizing second he allowed himself to be present in this hell was worth being near her._

"No," Lucinda admonished, her small hands bracing against his shoulder.

The Elite gave a cough that was probably an indication of his discontent, but he obeyed. She lightly stroked his face, earning her a gurgling, broken purr as she lay down at his side and draped an arm across his battered neck, sharing as much of her warmth as she could.

Sounds filtered in. Somewhere, a bird chirped, its piercing call breaking through the murmur of those outside the cavern. Deléon closed her eyes for what felt moments when the sound of footfalls and chatter jerked her awake.

The suns had begun to set, evidenced by the long cone of dusky glow falling from the cave mouth and curving up the far wall to set the ceiling alight. Elongated shadows wrapped upward as the creatures drew near. Lucinda could feel the air burning in her lungs as she tried to breathe, tears spilling across her cheeks as she gripped her companion's arm tightly.

The energy barrier collapsed with a fizz, taking with it its eerie pink glow. There were snarls in a foreign language and Lucinda felt the Elite's body jerking as it was tugged, "No," she sobbed as she was partially dragged along with him.

There was angry chatter and Deléon buried her face against him, clutching him tighter. A hand closed around her arm and she wailed: a raw, inarticulate scream full of all her torment. Movement stopped as the Elite was suddenly released. A startled Jackal gave him a swift, hard kick in the head when his chest hit the ground and he groaned.

"Stop it!" Lucinda yelled, pulling herself over the apex of the Elite's bulk, struggling with legs that refused to work, moving against throbbing, piercing pain in her lower body, "Get _away_!"

The smaller aliens seemed stunned silent for a few beats as the human girl sprawled as best she could across the Sangheili's back. There was a bark from outside the cavern and a slouching brown Brute turned to give answer. Lucinda thought her heart would beat right out of her chest at the heavy footsteps thudding through the cave. The animal which rounded the corner was huge. A muscular beast covered in shaggy blue-gray fur, white highlighting the rough angles of his face and tapering to a scraggly goatee which dangled from his chin. A dark, poorly-fitting fur cloak hung across his shoulders and fluttered heavily behind him. The garment shone green at the edges as dusk backlit his imposing figure when he settled a few feet before her, arms folded.

A heavily clawed paw of a foot tapped thoughtfully before the beast erupted in laughter. He reached down and grabbed the trembling, barely conscious Elite by an arm.

"No!" Lucinda screamed, small human hands balled into fists, pounding on the Brutes fingers with all she had, "Don't hurt him anymore!" she screeched.

The creature just laughed, shoving Lucinda aside like a rag doll and dragging the Elite upright.

"_You see this?" Izakkus jeered, his words barely making it through the tattered veil of returning consciousness, "Do you see it?!" the beast shouted into his earbud, sending words bouncing around in his head. _

_A furry hand grabbed hold of his jaws and forced his gaze to the human girl. Her body was outlined in a doubled haze, but he could see her in a heap on the floor, her face in her hands as she sobbed. _

"_The _Great_ Legion Master," Izakkus sneered, spittle ejecting through clenched teeth, "mourned by a human." _

_Mandibles throbbing, face clamped in Izakkus' hand, he looked upon his solace, his undeserved mercy and mumbled, "...she is more than _you_ will ever have…" _

_The Jiralhanae seethed and roared his outrage at the other man's insolence. Even near death the Sangheili refused to break. A heavy fist clubbed the damaged, but willful, captive's head and the world returned to darkness._

* * *

**Fort Champlain**

"I thought Sangheili weren't allowed to know who their fathers are," Amy said in frustration.

Torsch had been trying to explain the nuances of who was responsible for the care of women in his culture, but she was determined to muddy it up with questions and awkward lines of reasoning.

He scratched at a lower mandible, "It is…complicated. I am not certain you would understand."

"Try me, _'Korid_," Amy said, her eyes narrowed playfully in challenge.

It was cloudy, promising to be an utterly starless evening. That did not seem to matter to either of them. They sat atop the hospital roof enjoying a salt-breeze as it blew in from the ocean. It was just enough to keep the night insects in hiding. Though the suns were still bright on the horizon, the smell in the air threatened rain.

Amy pursed her face petulantly and glowered up at him.

In general, 'Korid found she kept her interactions with others consummately professional. It was only when talking to him she seemed to bawl up and get outrageously flirtatious. This especially seemed to happen when she felt provoked, which he seemed unintentionally quite proficient at doing; or when he insinuated she might not understand some cultural detail; or when the subject turned uncomfortably personal and that frightening electric feeling crept into the air around them. Despite the increased occurrence of the latter, and how he was able to irritate her without exerting effort, she seemed as uninclined to terminate their nightly habit as he was: stars or no.

He sighed heavily.

"The law only applies to males, and open affection or favor of any child is forbidden, but most choose to acknowledge their daughters if for no other reason than to provide another line of shelter from potential suitors."

"You take the _sheltering_ of women pretty seriously _in your culture_, don't you?"

"Yes. They are disproportionately fewer in number. Brothers are obligated to see to their sister's welfare; a woman who chooses not to take a husband is cared for by her male kindred, including her father and, later on, that will be a duty assumed by her sons. It is a rare occurrence when a woman must survive on her own. Some make that choice, and few are allowed to become part of the homeguard, but those are exceptions made under only specific circumstances."

Torsch really hope that answer was satisfactory. He had come to the conclusion early on Amy was simply a wounded female attempting to function by fighting back against the things she understood as unjust. It was plain to see there was a viciousness percolating just under the surface. It was never his intent to insinuate females were incompetent or inferior based on gender, though that was the way she seemed to take his side of these conversations. It was a defense mechanism on her part, the same as his general moodiness.

"They're never self-sufficient?"

"My mother was," he rumbled matter-of-factly, "for a long time. She was allowed to leave the colony and return to the homeworld because her intent was to provide a better life for her children," he squared his shoulders defiantly, "She did so knowing she would do so alone once she left. I never truly understood how hard it was for her until I was an adult myself."

Amy wished she could just let it go, but there was an old ache inside which hung on like a bulldog. She wasn't trying to start a fight with him. It wasn't his fault his society was so repressive. Still, the cavalier manner in which he answered irked her to no end.

"They can't ever join the Covenant?" she prodded.

"Only those who...whose clans will not have them sold should they be of no…_value_. All women learn basic martial skills as free children are required but it is _not their place_ to make offensive against an enemy," he said earnestly.

Amy slowly turned and glared at the side of his head, "_Their place_?" she repeated, "And where would that be? At home and pregnant?" she asked in a tone which indicated she was not amused.

He could feel her looking at him. A mandible twitched, "Yes," he answered, certain he no longer wanted to continue having this conversation.

Everyone had their place in a functional society, even females. The Writ was merely a confirmation: _'…according to our station, all without exception…'_ He did not see why this was a difficult concept to understand. It was evident even in the current odd arrangement on this planet. Everyone had their part to do.

"Maybe some of them want to be worth more than their…their…their..." she stammered, her voice rising as irritation built upon itself, "their _reproductive organs_," she finally hissed, "And what do you mean _'of no value'_? Because they can't have children?"

There, she came out and said it because he clearly wasn't going to. He had been tiptoeing around the issue for an hour but she finally put it into words.

He snarled frustration, "That is not an entirely accurate assessment. Women have charge over most domestic issues and all familial record keeping, and they are permitted to…"

Torsch did not understand women, had no desire to, and humans were peculiar, but he was not dense. When he turned to look at her he could see she was hurting. Something about this subject…

That was when it hit him. This mattered to her because hers was not simply bitterness in the vein Sangheili females spewed on behalf of womankind. Amy's bitterness was specific and personal.

"You cannot have children," he said in stark revelation before he could stop himself.

Her face contorted and he could see she was trying to contain the feelings and fears those words evoked. 'Korid had never hurt for another person before. He considered himself compassionate to the extent self-preservation would allow. That reached just to the tip of insecurity he could understand, but as he sat looking at Amy's tormented face, genuine pain twisted up in his chest and he had to convince himself it had nothing to do with wondering how it would feel to reach for her, to touch her, to hold her…

He had no frame of reference for what to do with women who were insecure. Angry, yes, insecure, no.

'_It turns out I'm not what men of my kind want in a wife,' _the statement rang in his ears and suddenly Torsch felt his hearts sink into his stomach.

To Amy, his words had sounded like an accusation. Starr did her best to gather up those angry, escaping emotions and stuff them back down. So what if he knew? So what if he was aware of her major deficiency as a woman? What difference did that make? Just because women in her circumstance were as undesirable _in his culture_ as she had been when Allen found out, what did it matter?

They were just talking. At most she would say he was her friend. It was harmless. It wouldn't change anything, she hoped, and it was not about suddenly finding herself afraid he wouldn't want to talk to her anymore because she was _damaged_ in his culture.

To his credit, 'Korid sat there, staring out at the clouds as they slid past in dark billows, and said not one more word. He didn't ask how or when or why. None of the questions which had always followed: the stuff Allen had known but hadn't pieced together until she had hit him over the head with it...five _years _into their relationship, eight months into an engagement. She always thought he knew, thought he had figured it out from the start, but he had still been upset.

Amy crossed her arms and hugged herself. She didn't want to think about Allen: 'Korid was not Allen; 'Korid barely had a personality where Allen had been Mister Charisma. 'Korid let his anger burst out in the open in all its glory where Allen had kept his contained and almost contrite.

Amy pulled her legs up onto the buttress, hugging her knees. "Do you have children?" she asked softly, "You know, out there somewhere?" she motioned to the sky with her chin.

'Korid felt a mandible twitch, unnerved by this whole topic and the turn it had taken in the direction of his personal life. He desperately wanted to avoid _this_. "Yes," he answered curtly.

"How many?"

'_How many', indeed, _he thought, "I…I am not certain," he mumbled, not daring to even watch her reaction from the corner of his eye.

The small laugh that escaped her cut him to the core, "Alright then, _playboy_," she huffed, her mirth an ill-disguise for disgust.

Torsch felt all of his muscles tense defensively as tried not to let his blood pressure skyrocket. He might not have been familiar with that term but it translated quite well. "_It is not like that_," he snarled, far more angrily than he had intended.

It was not like that at all. Few common men were unable to number their children. Most of them fortunate enough to have offspring could count them on the fingers of _one hand_. Torsch had absolutely no pride in the fact he was in a distinct minority generally reserved for high-ranking Swordsmen. It was not a situation he wished to think about. It was _not_ associated with pleasant memories, let alone an experience male pride would allow him to admit had been rather horrifying.

Starr had moved hastily away at his outburst. When he turned to her, she was half-sprawled across the wide crown with her booted feet the nearest part to him, propped up with her hands behind her, looking back at him with wide eyes.

Yes, his reaction had startled her; jerked her from the depth of her own turmoil and right back to the present. He clearly wasn't the embodiment of what she expected a man in that situation to be. He wasn't proud of himself, and by the look in his eyes, he was actually haunted by whatever was lurking in that part of his past.

She saw his shoulders slump and he bowed his head miserably as he looked away. She realized right then what she had seen before hadn't been him. Those angry reactions and all of his vicious explosions of temper were his defenses, but they weren't him.

It was not a game. She had not intended to hurt him. Why could he not make himself believe that? "Amy, I…" he began.

"No," she interrupted, slowly rolling back to a sitting position. Without giving it a second thought, she scooted close to him. He tensed for a second when she reached for his elbow and lifted his arm, manipulating him so she could snuggle close and put her head on his chest. It was a devastatingly frightening move. She had never been big on comforting others. It had just seemed the right thing to do. The conversation had turned too quickly to subject matter which struck emotional chords in both of them.

As her cheek settled against the warmth of his chest plate and she wrapped her arms around his narrow waist her mind seemed satisfied with the answer of how it would feel to touch him. Though, she hadn't been aware that was even a question in her head.

Torsh felt her arms wrap around him and she gave him a reassuring squeeze. In that moment, he could feel that all was forgiven. A smile played at his mandibles as he put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as he dipped his snout to the top of her head and let her hair tickle his face. She smelled of flower scented soap, sugar, oats, cinnamon, and woman.

The rate of his hearts kicked up and the sudden urge to run his hand along her exposed skin, to desire to feel the soft curves pressed against him streaked unabated through his baser consciousness. Every part of him that was male railed against his iron self-control and years of denial. He wanted her in the most basic way. She was a human. She was a woman, shunning him as unworthy one moment then giving every indication of willingness the next, _in his culture_. He silently cursed himself for a rake as arguments chased themselves around in his head.

What in nine hells was wrong with him? All this woman had to do was _touch _him and his lust was sent wandering practically unbridled? It was unnerving that the reckless streak he had worked so hard to ignore, the defiant part of him which he thought had been long ago whipped into submission had suddenly made itself known and announced it had not a damn to give.

Amy could hear the rhythmic sound of his hearts through the plate on his chest. A soothing noise which was both organic and mechanical, timed to perfection. He smelled like clean Sangheili. A smell she imagined was similar to a freshly paved road that had been scrubbed with all-purpose soap.

Male. He definitely smelled male. That lightly musky, almost primitive scent that stirred something inside of her which had been dormant for too…

_Whoa, whoa girl, _she chided herself, _he's an alien. Those thoughts are so out of bounds. _

The breeze picked up and brought in a clean whiff of the nearby ocean. They were both trying to ignore it: that something which had shifted. It was as if some significant moment had passed. Apprehension and excitement flickered intermittently, the sensations elusive and refusing definition. Starr didn't dare move for fear of breaking the spell or egging it on.

She didn't have to do either.

"Amy," he said her name like a question, his tone thick with what hung around them, his voice like brushed velvet.

A cold spike shot through her making her skin blossom with gooseflesh. One word: two syllables; but the longing that one word held made her heart squeeze and did unfathomable things much farther south.

_Time out, _logic screamed, _Amy, stop it. You don't think like this, you don't _feel _like this. It isn't _safe.

_Moody, alien ass-hole, _fear chimed in, as if listing a few of 'Korid's lesser attributes would bring her wall of self-defense springing back up.

Yes, she had been reminded of how frightfully easy he was to anger. But…he was also warm, and felt so strong, and his sentiments could be hurt and driven to outbursts and despair as easily as hers could. And he was holding her close, not pushing her away.

Fear and logic wrecked havoc in her mind as her body made its own, generally ignored demands.

There was a muffled crackle as a few security lights flicked on across the lawn below. Dusky yellow was thrown in swatches of dull illumination in patches on the ground. With a hum, a few blinking red bulbs kicked on at the corners of the roof in warning to non-existent aircraft. A blue-white safety panel clicked and thumped to life near an external breaker back-up near the stairwell. And, a dim electric squelch heralded bits of the post's pa system coming back to life.

Amy and 'Korid looked around at the happening as a few cheers rang out below. Then, everything fell silent as a ghostly sound began filtering out into the night.

A long, mournful sequence of classical strings rose softly and, for a moment, Amy's ears refused to process what she was hearing. Elegant, somber music flowed from the pa speakers, rising like a swelling tide. With gentle, liquid fluidity, a female soprano melded in, her words as much blending with the accompaniment as rising above it. All elements came together and were transmitted seamlessly out into the night and even the air seemed to still in reverence.

A few people walking below paused while several more poked their heads from tents or emerged from doors. Lieutenant Colonel Dover emerged from his makeshift quarters and walked out onto the lawn. A wistful smile spread across his face as he lifted a glass in toast.

Amy looked up to see 'Korid's head tilted intently.

"It's music," she whispered, "Tell me they have music in your culture."

She felt the sharp rise and fall of his chest as he chuckled deeply, "Of course we do," he rumbled, "I was simply not aware humans were capable of something so…_dignified_."

With good reason, Amy supposed. So far the species' musical talent had been displayed by groups of soldiers butchering cadences or mouthing off tunes from the top twenty list. Some of them would mimic musical accompaniment, badly, while someone else belted out lyrics, usually off key and pornographic in nature. Not the finest examples available.

But this, Amy didn't have a clue what was being said but so long, nothing she had ever heard came close.

_Props to Doctor Guthrie for pushing to get the pa system back up and to whoever decided to announce it like this. _

"I wish I spoke French," Amy sighed, thankful for the reprieve from her inner torment.

She felt him laugh softly again, "It would do you no good in this situation."

"Oh?"

"She is singing in _Italian_."

Starr cocked her gaze up at him and saw him looking down at her, his mandibles creased into a smile, his snout almost touching her nose. Her heart thumped an extra beat. "Okay, smartass," she grinned, choking down apprehension at what she felt was his sudden closeness, "What is she saying?"

He closed his eyes and listened for a few moments and Amy watched the lines of his face. "She is missing her lover who has gone to war," he said silkily.

Amy nodded thoughtfully though there wasn't a thought in her head. Her skin felt flushed and tingly and she worried her heart might explode out of her chest. Whatever this feeling was that had snuck back up and grabbed her was terrifying. She nestled back against him with a ragged sigh and let the sound seep into her brain.

"Amy," he said again.

Cold spikes shot through her again and set butterflies loose in her stomach. Starr suddenly wound from 'Korid's embrace, throwing her legs over the roof-side of the ledge, needing to move, needing to do something, needing a distraction. _Any _distraction.

Something had frightened her, he could sense that much. When she grabbed his arm as she turned and stood, he brought his legs over, still seated as he followed her around.

"Come on," she said playfully, giving his arm a tug, "Get up."

He gave her a suspicious look, "Why?"

"Because," she answered sharply, _tug-tug_, "You're going to dance with me."

"What!" 'Korid chirped in surprise, pulling his arm from her grasp.

"Oh, come on," she pleaded like a child, flopping her arms in mock exasperation, "I _know_ they have dancing _in your culture_," she gave him smart look, though her body protested this choice of distraction with a sudden weakness in her knees. It was the first thing that had come to mind.

_Stupid brain_.

A mandible twitched, "Yes," he said with measure, "but it is usually a…that is, between non-familial persons…" he scratched the back of his head.

"Seriously?" Any droned, "Is there anything in your culture that isn't a preamble to sex?"

He clicked his mandibles, "Very little."

Amy gave an exaggerated sulk in response, "_Come on_," she insisted, stomping one foot.

He huffed, "You are wasting your time with this argument," _and upsetting my hormones, _he silently added.

Amy growled at him then turned and walked away, snapping playfully over her shoulder, "I promise I won't make you have sex with me afterwards."

_Well, just tell him what you're thinking there, Amy._

There was silence as she paused with her back to him berating herself. When she turned, his eyes were narrowed to reflective slits and her heart landed near her feet. He folded his arms as his brow ridges lowered angrily and his jaws clenched.

"Um," she croaked, not liking how suddenly pissed-off he looked. _Oh, God, what did I say now?_

He gave a bovine snort, his face a mask of contained fury from the flat of his head all the way to the turned-down corners of his mandibles.

After a long, tense moment he rumbled in a low, deadly voice, "You say that as if you presume I would not wish to."

What was left of her brain stopped working.

He quirked a brow ridge.

"Uh," she stammered.

'Korid stared at her like that for a what felt a small eternity, then, one corner of his mandibles lifted and lips drew back as a fang punctuated grin spread across his face.

_You smartass son of a bitch, _she thought,_ So, there actually is a sense of humor in there somewhere._

Amy burst out laughing in relief, "Alright," she sang, "alright," grudgingly acknowledging he had gotten over on her. She stepped to him and pulled on his folded arms, "Then get your smart ass up, _'Korid_."

* * *

**Outside New Saint Entinne/ In the shadow of **_**Vengeant Shepherd**_

"…_hear me…reptilian piece of garbage..?" _

_The words floated through his brain as if from a great distance despite the heat of Izakkus' breath and spittle assaulting his face. As his eyes faltered and fluttered open, his vision was cloudy. All movement was a blur. Everything was smudges of color which refused to come into focus. He could feel the ground sliding beneath him as he was dragged across the worn earth. His head slammed into the ground when he was dropped and the air was forced from his struggling lungs._

Izakkus was in a frightful, barely controlled rage. Much of the gathering which collected for the shows of torture backed or slunk away as he emerged towing the Sangheili. It seemed the sight of their pack leader in a fit, not calm and merry, had quelled their excitement. Which only fuelled the Jiralhanae's fury.

"Do you hear me?!" Izakkus howled, giving his prized captive a kick in the ribs.

_A reflexive wheeze was the only response given. He never fought back. Today, Izakkus had been so incensed as not to waste time putting him in chains. It would not matter. He accepted what was done to him with all the resolve of the already damned, breaking down in screams only in the moments before consciousness failed him, when his mind had forsaken his body. _

_Sight blurred and wobbled like a defective terminal link as the gray-blue and emerald smudge paced at his side. The Jiralhanae's words ribboned through his mind lazily, echoing across damaged ears. _

_In these moments, awaiting torture, with his body unwilling but his mind in pieces, delusions rose up. The imaginings of a dying psyche blossomed under the strain to hallucinations which took hold of his senses. _

_He could smell the sweet incense of ceremony, feel the cool linen of his kaidon's robe and the summer breeze of Sanghelos. The conqueror, the ruler, on his face welcoming death. _

_Thousands of soldiers lost to his selfish cause returned to the shadow of their flagship. He could seen them even now, standing at the fringe of the dispersing mass to watch their Legion Master suffer his rightful agony, to bleed so that their deaths might be avenged and set before their ancestors honorable. He could hear their spilled blood screaming from the ground for vengeance. _

_A respected, powerful man. These were still his soldiers; they did this because he ordained it, ordered this punishment. They _would _absolutely obey him. This was what he deserved! Until he was dead he was god in this legion!_

_Mad laughter erupted from his mouth. _

The sound pushed Izakkus over the edge. The pack leader fell on his captive, "You have uttered your last!" he bellowed, grappling with twisted mandibles splayed in psychotic merriment.

Thrusting a furry hand down the Sangheili's throat, Izakkus grabbed hold of the creature's tongue and stretched it from his mouth. Channels dimpled in a v below the juncture of the captive's jaws and the pack leader drew his blade, cursing.

Muffled, choking laughter turned to wet, gurgling squeals as the Jiralhanae carved the lines in the Sangheili's neck, hacking until her could tear the unruly organ from the other man's throat.

Stained, powdery yellow eyes lolled back in the captive's head as slurps and coughs sputtered deep purple from the gaping wound. The disgraced man gagged and struggled to breathe against his own blood rushing to drown him, his body seizing and unable to coordinate movement. Izakkus gave an irritated snarl, dragging the Sangheili up to hang limply from the pack leader's grasp.

"…_fight me!..pathetic snake..!" _

_Vision doubled, color drained, heat washed across his chest as a chill lit across his skin. The moment the Jiralhane released him, dirt rushed up and he heard his head ring hollow against the ground. Sensation completely failed and sound swirled away like water down a drain. _

Izakkus' anger was nowhere near spent. He hauled the Sangheili unceremoniously back into the depths of the cave and slammed his fist against the control panel, sending the energy barrier crashing down. He tossed the captive in then paced the opening snarling and cursing, keeping curiosity from without well staved.

This had gone all wrong. He could not break this Sangheili as he wished. The insolent lizard did not know when he was defeated. He would not beg for death, he would not plea for mercy, he would not…

Movement caught the Jiralhanae's attention from the corner of his eye. Izakkus turned to see the small human girl, long dark hair tumbling in tangles across her shoulders and spilling down her back as she crawled toward the Sangheili. The young woman placed a small, pale hand against the captive's chest. Struggling to sit, she swept the luscious dark hair from her face, revealing a primate countenance. Tears paved clean paths down her hairless cheeks.

'…_she is more than you will ever have…' _

The Sangheili's final words lashed back and a sneer twisted Izakkus' face, _But, think I_ will_ have her._

He stepped into the cell and grabbed the girl by her hair, jerking her up and slinging her across the floor.

Confusion and pain. Her world was yanked sideways and her painful body slammed to the rocky floor. Lucinda couldn't right herself and the Brute was on her in an instant. Her lower body throbbed and ached as she wriggled against his bulk threatening to crush her. For the first time in a long time the instinct to fight rose up and she shoved at his neck as he hungrily lapped at her skin.

Izakkus reveled in the tiny cries and the outraged squeals, the way she fought but was too weak against him.

Fear and agony tugged her toward unconsciousness. She could feel the rough texture of his fur; smell his odor; hear the click and snap and rustle of strategic clothing being pushed aside. She screamed, shoving ineffectually against his chest as he leaned over her and licked her face.

_The sound sank into his brain like lead in a stream. His senses returned in starts. Misery assailed him. Weakness from blood loss bid him to give in to death. _

_He could hear her…crying…not in sorrow but in pain…in fear. _

_His eyes flicked open and everything wavered in and out of focus. A ringing pierced his ears and sang above the muffled, far off sound of her struggling. His gaze trailed along the winking parameter lights of the inactive barrier, the pale shard of bone protruding from the stump of his right arm, the pack leader draped in a Legion Master's cloak and beneath him…_

_Forgiveness…mercy…she was going to be ravaged by Izakkus. _

_Realization pushed the poisons of panic and rage through his veins. This was his fault. The ringing in his ears closed off to silence. She did nothing to deserve this. Pain fell away as a corona of red blurred his vision and everything became awash in a murky film of crimson. He brought this filth here; he let this happen. Hearts racing out of synch and lungs seizing, his body trembled with the effort to collect under the weight of his injuries. His damaged brain began misfiring against the flood of chemicals rerouting information. It was too much. The second before the world collapsed to black he felt his hearts stop._

_He died..._

_He was reborn._

_Focus snapped to both body and mind as senses were set afire. Lifting himself from the rocky floor, everything he was and had ever been collected in on itself in a vengeful fit of wrath. _

Lucinda clamped her eyes shut as the Brute shifted his weight over her, raking his claws against her skin as he lapped greedily at her chest. She gagged in revulsion and tried to will her mind elsewhere. He forcefully manipulated her hips to an alignment which suited his goal as he panted hot, sticky breaths against her neck…

Warmth exploded across her chest and the beast choked, his body going rigid, giving tiny, spasmic jerks as another wash of thick heat hit her in a hard spray. Lucinda opened her eyes to see her assailant staring back at her; eyes vacant, jaws slacked, tongue lolling, blood rushing from his open mouth. Lifting her gaze, she saw gnarled, stubby, scaled fingers tangled in the hair on the Brute's crown. The Elite towered above them on unsteady legs, with the pike of his arm buried to the elbow in the creature's neck as sharp, pale shards protruded from the opposite side.

With a trembling, mute snarl, the Elite cranked the Brute's head back and jerked: the bony weapon tearing the beast's throat out. A line of gore was slung across the ceiling in an arc and the Brute twitched as blood swelled in an ever weakening flow. The Elite gave Lucinda's would-be attacker a kick in the chest and sent the corpse toppling like a felled tree away from her.

Violently snatching the dark fur cloak from the Brute's shoulders, the Elite stepped to Lucinda as she tried to collect herself and draped the garment over her nakedness.

Silently, her companion turned and began pulling the belt from the tangle of clothing at the knees of the Brute's draining corpse. He slung it across his own shoulders and retrieved several grenades which had rolled free and clipped them within easy reach. Lucinda looked up, mind refusing to accept what was happening as the Elite crouched at her side, bundled the fur around her, and collected her up in his arms.

* * *

**Fort Champlain**

Even being short for his species, 'Korid was still significantly taller than Amy was. There was odd fidgeting as she got the impression this act was probably _way _different in his culture. For starters, as a species, the Elites had atrocious natural posture. Then, there was the fact the Stealth Major acted like he had no clue what she was talking about. Amy wondered if they would even make it through the basics before the inordinately long Italian composition eventually died out.

He didn't seem to have a concept of stance, or frame, or position, or hold, or _anything._

Or maybe he was just being a pain in the ass.

Once the extreme fundamentals were worked out, they stood there for a moment like two teenagers at prom trying to respect the ten inch rule, "Okay," Amy puffed, "You lead: you're the man."

Torsch growled deep in his throat, _at least their cultures agreed on that much_, he thought.

Amy gave an _eep _of surprise when he hauled her against him, "I am well aware of _that_," he hissed.

Starr threw her head back and laughed despite the fearful sensations making her extremities tingle.

'Korid snarled inwardly as his eyes wandered traitorously to her slim neck. _Oh, gods, _he groaned silently, _why in the hells did I agree to this?_

Starr hummed along with strains of the melody and let herself be led along, occasionally stumbling over his feet. Okay, _mostly _stumbling over his feet, vaguely aware of the rest of the world. He was warm and solid. Though, dishearteningly uncoordinated…

"Okay," Amy said, stepping on his foot, "you need to.."

He hissed angrily, rounding his shoulders and forcing her back, his hand securing her against him with pressure on the base of her spine , "Quiet, _woman_," he jeered in a whisper, compelling movement and turning her forcefully.

Amy snickered at his determination, feigning irritation and biting down on her lip with a grin, "Feel the music," she teased back, "I was gonna' say _you need to feel the music_."

Which was an odd statement, because it was definitely not the music _she _was feeling. 'Korid was like a sturdy wall of muscle holding her with just enough force to remind her of how brutally strong he really was. Yet, there was something else in there. She had seen it. All of his temperamental ass-hole-ishness was to keep people away, because being a jerk created distance…_and distance was safe. _

The very thought made her heart skip.

He swept her around, semi-gracefully. And for an absolute half a millisecond, it came close to being like actual dancing.

A warrior he was: a dancer he was not. He would have happily admitted that. Besides, the _music _was the _last _thing he wanted to be feeling. It was on the list, somewhere after nuzzling the skin of her neck just to see if it felt as wondrous as it looked and finding out if the rest of her was as creamy colored and smooth. He startled at the unrestrained rambling of his mind and bit back a curse at his suddenly unruly libido.

_What in nine hells?_

"This is so not working," Amy mumbled in a laugh, tripping over his toe.

He tightened his grip around her waist and leaned so near she felt his mandibles brush her cheek, sending a cascade of warmth clear to her toes, "Stop fighting me," he said in a smooth rumble.

Amy suddenly found she couldn't breathe. His voice was threatening like distant thunder and as silky as liquid smoke. She could feel the plate of armor covering his groin as it brushed her stomach and felt suddenly very aware of what part of his anatomy it was protecting.

"I know how this is done," he purred.

It was completely out of line and he knew it. For so many more reasons than the readily apparent. Had she been Sangheili, his audacity at such a statement would have been insulting given his place as a common man. The words alone were innocuous, but he had said them in a tone intended to put the lesser castes in their place. The problem was, Amy did not seem to know her place.

Starr's mind told her she shouldn't say a thing. She should disengage and retreat to a safe location. But, in that moment, she told logic and fear to buzz off.

"Prove it, _'Korid_."

The barb sent a wave of heat through him and he growled defensively, his hand releasing hers to slide carefully down her arm with measured slowness, nestling at her waist.

She hummed in response, instinctively reaching to drape both arms across his shoulders, pushing up to sway on her tiptoes and looking back at him with open, delighted challenge.

Unconsciously, his gaze drifted from her eyes down her face across her upturned human nose to study a wide human mouth ringed with full lips. Torsch could feel all sane thought and sense of decorum evaporating.

He suddenly became concerned with the practicalities of how to attempt going about this. Even as she nibbled at her bottom lip and it became obvious her mind was right there with his, there was a part of him which wondered if humans had truly evolved a similar intimate gesture or if he was about to make a huge mistake and she would think he was trying to bite her face.

Amy could feel his hesitation. It terrified her more than she would acknowledge. When her eyes inadvertently traveled the configuration of his mouth a flare passed between them and their gazes flicked together.

It was one of the few moments in his life 'Korid could have admitted he was afraid. It was more than varying facial design. Kissing a woman had never been warranted. It was a display of affection none of his mates had felt for him. Courtship and sex had always been strictly utilitarian events not charged with any degree of passion.

A flush of heat chased a cold trickle through him at the realization there was a name for what he was feeling.

_So be it. _

"My mother named me _Torsch_," he snarled.

The rim of his snout and the tips of his mandibles made contact with her lips and there was a moment of shocked stillness from both of them as their brains tried to accept what was happening. Then, mouths shaped at variance moved against one another seeking alignment.

Amy heard herself moan into him as her senses spun out of control and her bones went completely to mush. She was certain if she let go of him she would ooze into a puddle at his feet.

Body and mind stirred beyond sanity, 'Korid let his tongue push against the soft fullness of her lips begging entry. She responded with an eager relenting that made his body ache. Despite care, his teeth grated the skin of her jaw and cheeks but her assertive responses lent themselves to no illusion of concern or coyness. Quite the opposite. Her tongue was smooth against his own and the rhythm with which she explored demanded he do the same.

What in all of Christendom was wrong with her? Amy didn't have random, passionate interludes. Everything in her past had been carefully calculated with men who were safe, not alien men who had short fuses and could so easily turn her on to the point of delirium. This wasn't safe. This was not even in the same galaxy as safe. It was both urgent and frightening and sent fire surging through her to pool heavily between her thighs as Torsch began to suggestively dip and withdraw between her lips. His tongue was rough like fine sandpaper, softened with saliva and gently prompting.

When he tore his mouth away from her Amy remained wilted in his arms, tying to have a cohesive thought as the shattered bits of her sanity refused to come together. He wasn't looking at her. His chest was pushed forward and his head was raised, tilting from one side to the other like a satellite seeking a signal…

"Inside, now!" he suddenly roared, turning her toward the stairs and half lifting her from her feet.

He threw her across his shoulder before they made the door and began acrobatically slinging himself down the stairs using little more than the railings. Amy couldn't breathe but she held on to the lines of his armor and the butt of the rifle across his back for dear life.

"'Korid, what is…" she tried to ask as he dashed down a hall, still toting her like a sack, bellowing intermittently in his native language. As he rounded the corner to their room, he set her on her feet just as explosions sounded in the distance.

There was a ripple effect of movement. Suddenly there were shouts and snarls and people of differing species scattering and rallying, the _click_ and _thunk_ of weapons being exchanged. Gunfire rattled in the distance. Screams and panicked shouts tore through the halls and erupted outside. The squeal and howl of Banshees cut through the air. A line of close detonations made the building tremble.

"I can't find Penny," Amy cried, rushing to 'Korid as he was shouting orders to nearby Elites. Without so much as pausing to hear her concern, he grabbed her around the waist, snatching her from her feet and thrusting her into Eeth's arms with a wrathful hiss.

"_Get her out of here!"_ Torsch raged to the Stealth Minor in Sangheili.

"Wait, what's going on?" Amy shouted, trashing in Eeth's embrace.

"You have to go," 'Korid snarled, "You must get out of the city."

The panic in his voice was frightening.

Sage eyes turned to the Minor, "_NOW!" _Torsch roared.

With no further explanation, the Major wheeled and charged down the hall, pulling the rifle from his back as Eeth took off with Amy in the opposite direction.

By the time Torsch made it to the main entry doors a hail of gunfire sounded from the front lawn. Shouts and screams seemed to peal from every direction. The squall and wail of Banshees pierced the air and another explosion rocked the building, sending down acoustic tiles and a rain of drywall dust.

Kote dragged Penny through a side entrance, trying not to hurt her as the woman hollered and flailed.

"Grand-mama!" she screamed, legs kicking air wildly as 'Hakkarm held her secure with an arm awkwardly around her chest above the swell of her belly. He bodily hauled her across the main atrium.

"Get her out of here," 'Korid growled to his second.

"Grand-mama!" Penny sobbed, violently throwing herself against Kote's restraint.

Torsch grabbed her trashing arms and forced her to look him in the eyes as another detonation made the foundation tremble beneath them, "Where is she?" he asked sternly.

"In the Kitchen," Penny cried.

Torsch and Kote exchanged glances.

"I have ordered the file from the city," 'Korid said as evenly as he could manage, "Get her out of here," he squeezed Penny's arms, "You cannot stay. I will bring her to you."


End file.
